My Favourite Joke

A twelve year old boy walks into a bordello dragging a dead frog on the end of a rope.  He slaps a hundred dollar note on the counter and says to the madam, "I want to see a prostitute."  The madam says, "Eh, you're a bit young for this.  Why don't you come back in a few years time?"  The kid slaps another hundred on the counter and says, "I want to see a prostitute tonight."  The madam says, "Okay, take a seat.  That'll be about an half hour wait."  The kid slaps another hundred on the counter and says, "I want to see a prostitute with active syphillis."  The madam says, "That'll be about a five minute wait."

Cheesy Tomato Tuna Pasta Bake

This is one of those deeply satisfying, simple dishes that sometimes you just have to have.   Serve it with plenty of fresh bread and butter to mop up the sauce.  Find the recipe on the Clever Pumpkin website.

Trial of the Romance Novelist: Part Twelve

Write a funny  sex scene

~ The Pocket Baird (Ideas for guaranteed bestsellers.)

Well how about that.  There's a distinction between a ménage a trois[1] and a threesome, and technically a threesome isn't a threesome when three is a sum of two doing one, in which case, said threesome is soft swinging, or double teaming.  Well how about that. 

Obama had reneged on Gitmo.  His semen certainly wouldn't be staining my little black dress now.  I would have to earn a living some other way.  So, having found no more ways in which to put it off, I sink to the unthinkable, and start writing erotica.

The thing that put me off about erotica is that it isn’t very erotic.  It’s just, well… blunt, really.  A blunt object, I suppose.  Something I associate more with being hit on the head than giving it, much less tickling my ticklish bits.

MMMMMFM Oh bugger me!  No sooner do I come to terms with MMFM sex than they upgrade to MMMMMFM.  No.  That isn't possible.  Six blokes?  SIX?  I mean a woman only has three possible entry points, unless she's got a lot of piercings and even then she'd have to have worn really big dangly earrings for a lot of years for them to be any use.

Trial of the Romance Novelist: Part Eleven

Trouble Brewing

The postie arrived very early this morning.  He must have been in a hurry to get my rejections to me, God love him.

It’s a day for new lows.  This is the first time literary agent has tried to flog me their book on how to get literary agent in their actual rejection letter.  Then there is the e-mail rejection.

The way I see it, in this business, you never know when the shit-kicking nobody you’re telling to fuck off today is going to turn into the next big thing overnight.  You would think that agents and editors would have the sense to realise that too.  A senior editor at a major New York house displays her great acumen in this regard by saying that my cooking project would appeal to those with a touch of OCD.

The problem with being a big fish in a small pond, sweetheart, is you never know when it’s going to rain.  Maybe the issue isn’t that my work isn’t strong enough, maybe the problem is that YOU’RE so effin’ JADED that you wouldn’t recognise a good book if it stood up and bit YOU on the arse…

Darkly muttering thus, I traipse down the road on a bitter winter Wild Dog day so windy that it really isn’t safe to be out on foot.  Though I wish I had worn a jacket, the prospect of being flattened doesn’t faze me in the least.  Vaguely I hear tree branches crack overhead, step over them as they fall, keep walking with my head down thinking my thoughts and muttering my mutts.