Lacking that, I'll just Call it as I See it about all the crap they pulled and what they got out of it, or not. 'Cause I've been sitting on bar stools telling people I think I have a Book in me since about 1974, and I'm not getting any thinner. You can call me Roger van Cleef and think of me as a 67-year-old retired machinist. That's not exactly true, but for You, it'll have to do. But hey, this isn't about Me or You. It's about Them. The minute you finally realize it's not all about YOU is when you'll get off your ass and actually DO something besides sleep, eat, drink, piss, shit, and think about getting off. Get it? Well, you will. I'll be patient, though Nobody Else will, since believe it or not, the rest of the world's gonna come, too, whether you're here or Not.

Ben was an avid golfer and he was also a goddamn asshole. You know him, and so do I. What you DON'T know is how he's gonna Die. But you're about to. 'Cause I'm gonna tell you. I wish I could sit here and tell you this is a Work of Fiction and I cooked this shit up from the Furrows of my Fertile Imagination, but I can't. I don't have the time or the inclination to sit around making up shit about people who aren't Real. But Nora, Ben's wife, now SHE sure as HELL was wishing she wasn't Real after she ended up in a Nebraska State Pen after killing her husband with a five-iron after he passed out surfing nerve.com for pussy while drunk on Old Forrester following a heated argument about his leaving the mayonnaise out of the refrigerator with the lid off.

His position was that it was his job as an Investment Banker that paid for the damn shit, and her position was that she was the one making him ham sandwiches while he sat around on his ass all weekend watching a bunch of Tiger Woods motherfuckers and cruising for a Piece on the Internet, and it was his position that why didn't she just shut the fuck up and Raise his Children, Kirby, 11, Rhonda, 8, and Tyler, 14 months.

Now you don't have to be as smart as Greg Norman to figure that THAT shit sure pissed ol' Nora off, coming as it did from an asshole like Ben, who was also a fucking alcoholic and said a bunch of other shit to her he didn't remember 'till he was in Hell getting Reamed up the Toot by Satan. Look, lots of people wouldn't have thought that Ben had a Problem with the Bottle since he held down a good job, wasn't a Writer, and lived in Lincoln. But those people are some deluded motherfuckers, too. This dude was as much of a drunk as some gay Painter who lives on Christopher Street, like THAT, man, but those morons in Lincoln thought he was just as upstanding a man as, say, Arnold Palmer or some shit. But his Wife, well, she knew better, and she Solved his Problem, too.

The dude was also a Cocksman. He never actually went out there and got his DICK wet or anything, so far as I know, but girls, those Internet Cocksmen are worse than the ones who actually go out there and bring the Syphilis home. I bet you don't agree, but look, like I said, this is not about YOU. Okay? Listen, if you don't give a prayer over Payne Stewart's charred Corpse that your Significant Other is thinking about some Internet Slut every time he slips it to ya, well, whatever. But that's what they do, too, those men. And if they're also into Golf, you KNOW that when their faces are contorted and their eyes are closed and the cords are standing out on their necks while they're fixing to Pop the Cork, they're thinking about some bitch named LouAnne Jenkins, 26, of Hannibal, Missouri, who says she's divorced when she emails people and posts pictures of herself rubbing her clit on adultfriendfinders.com. No shit. But she never begged God to put HER here, either. You know Russell Johnson, the dude who played The Professor on Gilligan? Well, that's what HE does. Sorry to have to be the one to tell you. His wife, Connie, doesn't like it a goddamn bit, either.

So that's almost like condoning Nora's Action, but really it's not. But like most people who get married, they were actually pretty ill-suited for each other. Not as ill-suited as the Judge who sentenced Nora to Life and HIS wife, though, and boy, after that Trial, he started emptying the cache on his computer right before he passed out in front of it every night, and he made this fucked-up website named Thank God I'm a Christian! His home page, so his Woman would think he passes out every night in the Jesus is Here! chatroom. What he didn't know, was that the whole time he was in the den on tastyirishcunt.com, she was on her laptop in the bedroom giving Virtual Lapdances to a Married Man in Tulsa named Pete Norris, who said online that he was 51 even though the sick fuck was really no less than 85 at the Time of that Writing. He's dead now, but THEN, he wasn't, see? Before he retired, Pete used to be a Set Designer for gay-assed Musicals about the Midwest and shit, but he was retired then, except he had this black-and-white picture of Chuck Connors, that fucker who used to be on TV shooting his rifle at people, that he'd send out to his Women and say it was him! Except in the picture, Chuck Connors wasn't holding a Rifle, so nobody knew who the fuck it was! Sure, the guy was a star in the early 60s or whenever that show came out, but it's not like he was goddamn Clark Gable or something. Plus, he died in 1992, before most people were online, see. And the picture is actually a still from a later TV show the guy was in called Branded, which is about this Civil War dude. Didn't know that, I bet! Well, now you do. Great to talk about to drunk retired cops at cocktail parties. Ran from January 1965 until September 4, 1966. So Pete downloaded it off the Net and told his bitches he was a Civil War Reenactor. Lots of them got into that, and Pete had something to think about for his trouble when he got it hard enough to do Mary, 69, his wife of fifteen years, before he died. Before that he had another wife named Betty, but he killed her with a Camera Tripod back in 1972 for the same reason Johnny Cash gives for shooting that man in Reno.

Everything affects everything else. See? It was not Newton, but the great Greek philosopher Heraclitus who finally figured that out. Or maybe somebody else figured it out first, but it was he who wrote it down.

Start with that premise and the next 300 pages will be funny as hell, just as quickly as one can churn them out.