novelsiwillneverwrite-blog
Novels I Will Never Write
The best of my worst ideas.
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Grape Towlsey
Grape Towlsey is about what you expect for a woman named after a fruit. She has a laugh that's equal parts tinkling and nails on a chalkboard, and she has too much money, to the point where you know she can't possibly vote Democratic. She thinks that the salespeople in stores are her friends, even though they're just being nice to her because she is easily persuaded into buying things that look terrible. Also, she sometimes wears a shade of pink lipstick that's so bright it's inhuman.
I shouldn't say these things about Grape Towlsey. She's my friend and she's nice, and the world needs more nice bitches.
I say this to make it all the more surprising when I explain how Grape Towlsey saved my life one day when we were lunching at the Snarlston with Lili and Jan. We were all pushing our cobb salads around and bragging about our kids when these two guys in dark suits and sunglasses came in and grabbed me.
"Kchoo arghk the spy," the one guy said in a thick accent as they forced my hands behind my back. "Kchwalk with us and kchtry to look natchkgural."
I smiled crazily, panicking on the inside. Grape Towlsey took the straw out of her iced tea, drew something out of her purse, and the next thing I knew, the guy holding me on the left collapsed. Then the guy on my right collapsed. I looked down and saw that they were both gasping for air.
"I've got to go," said Grape Towlsey, putting something back into her purse and skittering out of the dining room on her kitten heels. The men who had assaulted me were now expired, and as I peered closer, I noticed that there was a tiny blow dart protruding from each thick neck.
This incident left me pretty well convinced that Grape Towlsey is a spy, but I can't be sure. Her phone's been going to voicemail for a week, but maybe she's just in St. Barth's, who knows?
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Pitching the Internet
My name is Grackthor the under-demon, and I'm about to reveal to you the true origins of the Internet. It all started with me. Well, I kinda took the idea from this guy I was drinking with one night in the 80s. His name was Al Gourd or something like that. But I was the one with the true vision.
Every week, we would have a pitch meeting with the Head Demon. The Boss would stop in every once and a while and say yes or no, but his heart wasn't really in it. Everyone was always pitching "More blow," "more crack," and he was like "Yeah, sure," but there were no original ideas for corrupting humanity being put about in those days.
It was one of those meetings where everyone was saying the same thing as always, and all of the sudden, I say, "Hey, what about an Internet?"
"A what?" says the Head Demon.
"Like, a way to store information and communicate with people remotely, using a computer," I said, a tad cautiously.
"Computers are for nerds," said Satan, waving it off. And all the other demons started to agree, but for some reason I was feeling ballsy.
"That's the beauty of it," I said. "Nerds will build it, and people will embrace it without the tiniest suspicion."
"I don't see how the computer will entice people to commit mortal sin," said the Head Demon disapprovingly.
"The Internet will be a powerful mind control device," I explained. "Everyone will start using it thinking they're being more productive, but really, it will just be a big waste of time. Thus, we reduce humanity to an even more slothful state. Eventually, they'll do little else but watch videos on their internet-using devices, which they'll carry with them everywhere."
"Hmm... it sounds like humans would really love this internet thing for viewing porn," said the Head Demon, twirling his beard.
"Yes," I said, "but eventually, they will reach a porn saturation point."
Most of the demons shook their heads in disbelief. Humans could never possibly have enough porn! they argued. They were starting to gang up on me, so I had to think fast.
"I tell you, they will eventually tire of even the most disgusting porn ever made," I said. "And when that time comes, they will waste countless hours watching cat videos!"
With that, I was laughed out of Hell. The Head Demon fired me and the other under-demons ran me out with their little pitchforks. It didn't bother me, cause I'm a visionary. I started working on my own for a while, funding Ask Jeeves, LiveJournal, Friendster...
Lately I've been producing a lot of cat videos. I think cats are the Internet personified. They're lazy idiots who somehow manage to control people, they have no self-awareness, and they don't care about anything. I think I've done a lot of detriment to the human race, and I'm proud of my accomplishments.
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Traveler's Insurance
There's a media shitstorm whenever a novovirus pops up on a cruise ship, but I'd like to let you in on a little secret: diarrhea can happen at any time, anywhere, and any time you go on vacation.
I consider myself a world traveler. I've been on all continents except Antarctica, so that's something. I've been on my fair share of cruises, and the health policing there is almost militant. The last cruise I went on, I was accosted everywhere by Filipino women armed with spray bottles of rubbing alcohol, sanitizing my hands red and raw. I felt a little queasy once in a Greco-Roman crypt in Alexandria, but it subsided once I got back to the ship and had my requisite spray-down. You get the picture.
At an all-inclusive resort in Cozumel, I once had a 3-day bout of Montezuma's revenge. One night in Jaipur, I opened my mouth in the shower and a few hours later, I awakened with a violent curry bubbling in my bowels and a fevered brow. In Tanzania, I left a trail of unpleasantness through the bush while on Safari. A bout of horrifying diarrhea is all in a day's work for the intrepid traveler, and I just pop a Cipro and go about my business till there's no more business.
If I ever get sickened by a norovirus on a cruise ship, I will consider it all of a piece with my traveling experiences. I'll go back to my cabin and take it like a man. It's a fair price for a week or two of living in a state of luxury that I would never be able to afford without cheap labor from the other side of the globe.
Yes, when you travel, diarrhea is the only sure thing you can count on.
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Death by Bikini Body
It started out as a normal Wednesday night. After work, I squeezed into spandex and hurried off to my workout class of choice: Bikini Body Bootcamp. However, instead of the usual instructor, Sexy Selena, an unfamiliar face stood in front of the mirror. She introduced herself in a lightly-accented voice as Freyja. She was tanned and svelte, and over six feet tall in her workout heels. She started up the dance music and warmed us up at a relentless pace. She gave very little direction and interjected no rhyming platitudes, limiting her instructions to "Up," "Down," and "One more!" It was unusual, but because she was tossing out very few motivational praise words, we worked all the harder to gain her approval.
She had us doing arm raises for an entire song. I kid you not. I could barely lift my arms by the end. The exercises increased in number of reps and difficulty. After an hour, I was so ready for the class to end. But instead, she had us get down on the ground and start doing fire hydrant legs. Five minutes went by and I thought I might pass out, but she just kept going. I wanted to say something, but I couldn't be the first to complain, and I definitely couldn't be first to stop. I wouldn't want the ladies in my class to think I was out of shape.
As Freyja ordered us to do more reps, I looked at the other ladies out of the corner of my eye. I saw some of their eyes drifting nervously, wanting to agree that this was ridiculous, but not wanting to betray any sign of weakness.
After ten minutes of this, I heard a thud as the first girl passed out and hit the floor. I needed to stop, I thought, but I couldn't. Then there was another thud. Freyja was totally unfazed. She kept lifting her legs robotically and calling out "10 more!" every few minutes.
When a third woman hit the floor, I tried to say something to Freyja. I say "tried," because though I moved my mouth, I was unable to make anything but a few guttural noises. I tried to form words, but I could do little more than grunt. I tried to stop lifting my legs, but I found that they were now moving involuntarily. My addled brain suddenly remembered the Murder Channel documentary I'd once seen about a European fitness robot. It had killed people by exercising them to death.
I focused all of my energy and moved one hand forward. Then, after some extreme effort, I moved my other hand forward. Another woman thudded to the floor. I knew if I didn't hit the robot's kill switch, we were all going to die.
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How I Became a Television Writer
It happened when I decided to ditch New York for sunny LA. By day I worked a succession of clerical jobs, and by night I wrote plays and struggled to organize free readings that few people attended. After eight years of this, it was beginning to weigh on me a bit.
While the plane was taxiing down the runway, the woman next to me dropped the fat script she was reading. I handed it to her and we started to chat. I told her I was moving to LA to be a TV writer.
“No way!” she replied. “I write for TV myself. Do you need an agent? I can help you get a meeting!”
“Really?”I asked, totally shocked. But she sent off some emails, and by the time the plane landed, I had a lunch meeting lined up. It seemed almost too easy…
When a woman called and rescheduled my lunch meeting to a late night warehouse meeting, I thought it was a bit unusual, but figured this was the way they did things in LA. She gave me an address and spent about twenty minutes giving driving directions before I could interrupt to inform her that I didn’t have a car.
On the way to the meeting, the cab driver told me he’d never even heard of the street before. He dropped me off in a vacant urban wasteland. I checked the address on the door of what seemed to be a warehouse, saw that it matched the address I’d been given, and gave the intercom a hopeful buzz.
“Aaaaare you Chriiiiiis?”a disembodied voice moaned eerily.
“Yeah,” I said.
“Enter,” said the voice, and the door suddenly whooshed open.
I walked down a darkened hallway. I saw light flickering in the distance and thought it looked almost like torchlight.
I emerged in a large, circular dungeon. Hundreds of people were there, shrouded in red scarlet robes. Indeed, some of them were holding torches. One of them, a tiny figure of indeterminate sex, was holding a skull, and this seemed to be the leader. “If you want to be a television writer,” it said, “you must pass the test.”
I was sworn not to tell these secrets on pain of death, but now that they have sentenced me to death anyway for the cardinal sin of drunk-tweeting a spoiler, I feel justified in revealing this—television writers are a secret society so depraved that they can only derive amusement from blood sports. I have been forced to fight human zombies high on bath salts—with only a garden hose to defend myself. You know the term “Writer’s Block?” It’s not an abstract concept. It’s literally a huge stone block that will tumble after you Indiana Jones-style if you forget to bow to the golden model of Cheers. I have watched as writers fed an intern to the dragon that lives in the bowels of their dungeon. That said, I did get a paycheck, and it wasn’t all bad.
After two years of shoveling dragon dung, I was promoted to writer’s assistant for Youtube Digest with Lame But Handsome Male Comedian Du Jour. Then I got my first writing gig working on the hit comedy Nerds Have Sex, Too. However, I really hit my stride when I wrote for HBO’s Deathsplatter Sexgore, which was, of course, a perfect opportunity to indulge all of the dark thoughts that I have now that I’ve been writing for television for a while. It’s a shame I’m about to be executed, because the show just got nominated for an Emmy. Anyway…
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The Giant Tarantula of Temecula
When Sharon and I retired, we decided we'd take the chance to do the things we've always wanted to do but just never had time for. One day she said to me, "Den, what about that road trip up the coast of California? We'll do the wine country, maybe learn how to surf." So of course I was on board. Never in a million years did I have any inkling it would be the worst decision I'd ever make.
After our surf weekend in San Diego, we headed north for some wine tasting. Well, we were trying to get there, but we were lost in the countryside ten minutes after leaving the Freeway. The GPS seemed to be permanently recalculating, and Sharon's phone had no signal, so she was just yelling at me to stop and ask for directions the old-fashioned way when something huge and hairy crossed the road in front of us. I slammed on the brakes and narrowly avoided hitting an eight-foot-tall tarantula.
"Dude, watch where you're going!" yelled the giant tarantula.
"Excuse me, sir!" yelled Sharon. "We're a little lost. Can you help us find this place?" She waved her phone at him and the tarantula shuffled over to the passenger's side window and squinted at the address she was showing him.
"Oh, you guys went the wrong way on Rancho California when you got off the freeway," said the tarantula. "You're not that far off, though. But while you're over here, I've got some great listings I'd love to show you. Are you looking for real estate? Because this villa I'm showing will blow your mind."
"We're kind of in a hurry," I said.
"Well maybe we should just take a quick look..." said Sharon in an undertone.
"Shar, you're talking to a tarantula," I whispered. "This is weird."
"He seems harmless enough," she shot back.
"It's only an 8-bedroom, nice little place, so it shouldn't take long," said the tarantula casually.
"Let's just pretend we're looking so we can see how the celebs live," begged Sharon.
So we followed the hulking tarantula up a hill, through an imposing gate, and inside a large terracotta-roofed mansion. Our feet immediately stuck to a spiderweb carpeting on the floor. It was so sticky, we couldn't move. I thought the tarantula was going to kill us and have us for dinner, but instead he started to sob.
"You guys don't know what a relief it is not to be treated like a freak!" whimpered the tarantula. "I was just a normal tarantula until they started experimenting on me at the lab. I was supposed to be getting treated for my Crohn's disease!" he wailed. "Now I'm 200 times the size and my bowel problems are 200 times worse! Since you guys are clearly cool, non-judgmental people, I'm going to tell you all about it..."
What could we do? We were stuck to the floor and scared for our lives. So we stayed and listened to his stories, and we've been living with this tarantula for a couple of years.
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Flight of the Unicorn
Mr. Lori floated in the lotus position above his beanbag chair in his bubble dome palace on the moon. He plugged in his magical Lite Brite and made a unicorn out of the colorful pegs. The unicorn sprang up and appeared to be running. It emerged out of the Lite Brite and stood a good eight feet tall. It knelt down and Mr. Lori climbed on its back. "Onward, Ho!" he cried, and with a shake of its rainbow mane, the unicorn flew straight through the wall of the bubble dome palace and carried Mr. Lori across space and time.
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Zoo Party
The Anteater was drunk again. It happened at nearly every party, and it was getting so old that everyone would tense up when he walked in the room. But the Zebra was having a book party for his autobiography, My Life in Stripes, so everyone had been invited.
The Anteater slurped his red wine lustily. "Ya know, I think this book is almost perfect!" he slurred. The Zebra looked away, embarrassed, as the Anteater clapped him on the hoof. "You should've mentioned more about your tongue. Or are you just jealous of mine?" the Anteater intoned.
"Okay, buddy," said the Lemur, prying the Anteater off of the Zebra's leg and attempting to pull him to the sidelines. The Giraffe cracked a joke at the Anteater's expense, and the Zebra's great whinnying laugh echoed through the night.
The Anteater turned around jerkily. "You know what your problem is?" he said menacingly. "You've got the looks, but no real talent." And with that, the Anteater knocked an opened bottle of wine over the stack of the Zebra's book. As if in slow motion, red wine flowed over each and every copy like a waterfall. The guests all gasped, unable to stop the carnage. The only thing that broke the silence was the glacial entrance of the Sloth.
"Sooooooorrrrrrrryyyyy Iiiiiiiiiiiiii'mmmmmm laaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaate," droned the Sloth. "Diiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiid Iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii miiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiisssssssssss aaaaaaaanythiiiiiiiing exciiiiiiiiiitiiiiiiiiiiiiing?"
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Muay Thai Restaurant
Being an apartment dweller in Brooklyn, I get a lotta menus slipped under my door. Sometimes I get real annoyed, but every once in a while I keep em. So I guess that was the case with the menu of a joint called "Muay Thai." One night, I feel in the mood for Thai food. I notice that all the items on the menu are named after action movies, and, feeling adventurous, I order a "Rocky."
Twenty minutes later, my buzzer goes off and I let the guy up. I open the door, and this guy is outside wearing nothing but a pair of boxing shorts and gloves. "You want your food?" he asks. "Come and get it!"
I think "Wow, this guy is real into his job!" so I pay up and give him a real good tip. Then he hands me the food and clocks me. I mean, he gets me right in the face and really lays me out!
"Yo, Adrian!" the delivery guy shouts before he books it down the stairs. I'm just laying on the floor in a daze. But eventually I get up and eat my food and it's pretty good. I'd order from there again.
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Romeo
Romeo is walking home, holding a bouquet of flowers. Roses. They are a little sad, but it was all they had left at the flower stall. It is his and Juliet's 10th wedding anniversary, and Romeo is trying desperately to make up for his years in the dog house.
"Romeo, Romeo!" Juliet calls down the castle stairs. "Didst thou remember to pick up the dry cleaning?"
"'Zounds!" thinks Romeo. There was always something.
Juliet looks down at him disapprovingly, reading the look on his face.
"Thou didst forget, and now I shall be forced to wear my second-best gown," she says scornfully.
Romeo hangs his head, and, apologizing profusely, offers her the flowers. "A rose by any other name would smell--"
"Of thy failures," Juliet snaps, taking in the wilting roses with an air of disdain.
If only he'd listened to his father, or to her father, thinks Romeo.
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Brain Pizza
I could see the target. It was an abandoned pizza place. It looked like a good place to scavenge supplies. But there was a problem. The place was surrounded by zombies.
I glanced to my left and signaled Ryder, my dirt-streaked but still very sexy backup. She signaled back and we slowly crept into position behind an overgrown hedge. We were going to take them out. I cocked my rifle and began firing on the zombies along with Ryder. They began to scatter, but their reaction time was too slow for them to protect themselves. We had hit about six or seven when the shout of a human voice made us stop dead in our tracks.
"HEY! HEY! HEY!" A voice, a male voice was shouting. The gaggle of wounded zombies parted and I saw a fat man in a dirty apron angrily waving a pizza paddle at us. "What's the big idea, killin' off my customers!" the fat man shouted.
I looked at Ryder, and she was just as confused as I was. Cautiously, we lowered our weapons and stepped out from behind the bushes. The man still held the pizza paddle over his head, threateningly. "What are you, some kinda competitor? You tryin' to run me out of business?"
Ryder and I shared a look of disbelief. "You do know there are zombies all around your store, right?" she asked.
"What do you think I am, stupid? I'm sellin' 'em pizza!" the fat man shouted.
I looked at him, trying to determine if he was crazy. "But they're zombies. How can they buy pizza?"
The fat man sighed and lowered his pizza paddle. "You better come inside. But don't shoot anybody!"
I slung my rifle over my shoulder and followed the fat man into the pizza shop warily.
Inside, the smell of baking pizza dough, and something else I couldn't quite put my finger on, was overpowering. I hadn't had pizza in so long. My stomach groaned loudly.
"Sounds like you could use a slice! How about it?" asked the fat guy.
"Thanks," I said weakly, sitting down at a crummy little table. Ryder was similarly affected. At the counter, a pimply teenager was helping one of the "customers." The zombies in the shop were actually forming an orderly line, groaning quietly to each other in a peaceful manner. A zombie bellowed "BRAAAAAAAAAAIN PIZZAAAAAAAA!" and dropped a gold bar on the counter. The teenager handed it a stack of pizza boxes. The next zombie in line offered up a carton of cigarettes in exchange for a pizza. It was all mind-boggling.
The fat man returned with two piping hot slices, which Ryder tore into unceremoniously. I paused. "How did you figure all of this out?"
"Look, I'm a business guy," said the fat man. "I see everyone's turnin' into zombies and the demand for brains is never higher, I adjust my product."
Ryder gagged. "You put brains in the pizza? Human brains?"
"Sure, why not?" said the fat man. "As you can see, they can't buy it fast enough. Zombies ain't so bad once you get to know 'em."
I had to admit, it was pretty brilliant. "But where do you get the brains?" I asked.
"Don't worry about it!" he said, smiling.
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William Pupa, III
William Pupa was the third man in his family tree to answer to that name. People often pronounced his surname so that it sounded like a post-larval insect, but although it was spelled that way, the Pupas pronounced their last name so that it rhymed with “stupa.” William Pupa thought it was an important distinction. Though the name as pronounced bore a slight touch of toilet humor, he did not wish to be confused with a post-larval insect.
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