Okay. M.P. Madden is still dead, kids. Right now, his body is in Tibet, where a crack-notch team of Lamas are trying to perform a dangerous, experimental new procedure upon his body, a procedure known as a "Reverse Kevorkian". Insurance won't cover it, so keep those donations coming.
Till then, here is Jay:
Hi. Umm, I'm the new guy, so to speak. That is, two days ago, I was at Store Number 322, happily ringing up the sweet old ladies and cute kids that frequented my store.
Now I've been transferred here, to Hell, to replace some weird Scottish guy. First thing when I get on the register, which I have this weird feeling is WATCHING me, this kid who reeks of pot comes up and starts shouting about "that other jerk who works here." Apparently he came in wanting change for the pay phone, and my predecessor complained because of the kid's bad grammar or something. And when the kid finally "got it right," the guy said something like "What, you think this store was built on the off chance that you might happen to wander in and need change? Buy something or get out!"
And then, after being informed I have to wear a filthy, stinking smock with "M.P." growing in fluorescent green mold where there ought to be a name tag, this weird dude claiming to be a minister comes in and says since I'm "M.P." I have to write some damn column. Apparently it's some by-law pertaining to whomever wears the smock.
I'm supposed to rant? Okay.
Umm, what makes me angry? Let's see...ah. Here's something. Form rejection letters.
See, I write science fiction novels. So far, I haven't been published, cause to get published, you have to have an agent, and to get an agent, you have to be published. And after years of sending unsolicited queries and manuscripts and letters to publishers, I have come to a few conclusions.
1. Fiction doesn't sell anymore, not really. The big thing now is cheesy new-age feel-good type books, stuff where some person who got his spiritual credentials off the back of a cereal box writes about how to take your crappy life and find value and meaning in it.
2. Second to new-age, "instant" current event type books (memoirs of O.J. jurors, O.J. lawyers, Bosnian war correspondents, people who've slept with their famous parents, et al.) are hot. Doesn't matter how ridiculous the subject, so long as you've got the "inside scoop."
3. Publishers, especially the big ones, never read their mail, particularly queries. Their logic is if you're trying to get published, you must not be any good, or you'd already be published, or something.
With these truths in mind, I sent out the following letter to various publishers and literary agents:
After spending six months as a CNN correspondendent in Zaire (now, the Republic of Congo), I have written a memoir of my experiences, entitled The Kingdom and the Clan. While there, I lived with several of the various factions of rebels warring for control of the country, and on several occasions I nearly lost my life.
Well, okay, I wasn't actually in Zaire, but I was near it. Well, actually, I just spent the last six months in my bathtub, here in Tennessee. But I did encounter various factions warring for control of my bubbly home, including the friendly Shampoo Bottle clan, the mischievous Deodorant Soap Bars (slippery little devils, them is), and the dark, powerful naval forces of my rubber duck collection. I did often report my experiences to CNN, who threatened me with legal action if I didn't quit bugging their secretaries.
The first 500 pages of my 5,000 page opus concerns my musings on current sociopolitical issues, such as "Why after the first three days does my skin get all shriveled?" and "What's that weird brown thing floating near my feet?" Later chapters detail other tense situations I encountered, such as the freezing cold I endured in the winter when, having not paid my water bill in four months, the water company cut off my hot-water supply, and the sewage problem (I could only hold it in so long, and not being able to leave the bathtub, I had to make do), and, of course, food (did you know that after awhile, you can convince yourself that Ivory Soap tastes just like chicken?). The climax of my epic concerns a near-death experience I had when I fell asleep and lay underwater for over a week. While in the Tunnel 'O Light, I met Rama Kariprana, who gave me the Eight Spiritual Keys to Shaving Your Inner Squirrel, along with some crappy tract about how to make a lot of money in some goofy scam called "stock market" or something stupid like that. Did I just say that out loud?
I have been published in finer restroom stalls across North America, and have won several literary awards from noted judges, in the form of restraining orders. My first novel, Chicken Soup for the Seven Celestine Prophecies of Madison County, which is a tender, touching coming-of-age tale about a dyslexic sheep forced to work as a telemarketer during the 1800's, was rejected by over five thousand publishers, none of whom ever once referred to me as "Bob." Since my name is "Darlene", I deeply appreciated their courtesy, and have been finding all sorts of ways to return it, some of which don't involve Spam.
Please allow me to send you my 5,000 page epic about my stagnant bathtub journey, and I am sure you will appreciate my genius. I will be happy to mail it to you postage-due, or, if you wish, I can use my psychic powers to transmit it directly into your subconscious mind.
Hank Darlene "Deepak" Chopra-Snizzleblither, Jr.
PO Box 21185
Chattanooga, TN 37424
PS: My mom says I'm the greatest writer of all time. Ever.
PPS: Do you like Spam?
So far, I haven't gotten any replies. But I'm waiting.