The following passage is from a forthcoming novel:
A navigational beacon in ___’s black Levi’s, a long-dormant transmitter buried by a more advanced civilization, was sparking back to life. Where he ought to have felt guilt, he instead was getting hard. Oh, the clairvoyance of the dick: it could see the future in a heartbeat, leaving the brain to play catch-up and find the necessary route from occluded present to preordained outcome.
Can you name the author?
When I saw the envelope from the ABA in this morning’s mail, I figured it was just the latest dunning letter asking me to pay for fourteen years’ back bar association membership dues. But it turned out to be from the American Booksellers Association.
It seems that now all my books have to carry this advisory notice on the front cover:
Now I need to find a lawyer. I mean, a competent one. Does anyone know Maud Newton’s number?
This year’s Bad Sex Prize goes to Aniruddha Bahal for his novel Bunker 13. The winning line: “Her breasts are placards for the endomorphically endowed.”
Discounting celebrities that go out of their way to sign bosoms (a phenomenon I’ve never understood), I’ve never thought of breasts as placards. Placards, by their very definition, are flat. “Endormophically endowed,” which would imply a surfeit of silicone or softness, contradicts that.
But that’s just the tip of the iceberg: “You see a designer pussy. Hair razored and ordered in the shape of a swastika. The Aryan denominator… “