Announcing The Grave Artist by Paula Lynn Johnson

Well, folks, I have just uploaded my paranormal murder mystery, The Grave Artist, to Amazon and BN.com.  A mere two to three years ago, this would have made me a desperate, self-published author.  Now, it makes me an "Indie" author, sticking it to the Publishing Man.

Apparently, I'm part of a vast econo-technological uprising, which makes me kind of hip.  Who knew?

Anyhoo, I encourage anyone who loves a good ghost story to take a gander.  You will get more than your 99-cents worth, I promise.  Coming soon to the Apple iBookstore!

No. 4 on the New York Times Nonfiction Bestseller List

For immediate release 
Hedging and Betton Publishing is passionate about the art and craft of writing.  We believe in books that challenge, inspire, and tell stories-- especially with words, printed on paper.  We champion authors who explore and celebrate what it means to be human (or a cat).  To that end, we brought you the mega-bestsellers:

"Transcendant.  Proof that mangled animals just might save humanity."  -- Robert Woofer, author of My Dog, My Sensei.

*AND*

"A revelation.  Proof that ferrets just might cure what ails you."  -- Lonni Farkus, author of The Hamster Solution
 

"Ferrets got rid of my heartache, my loneliness, and my eczema.  Read this book, and you'll never look at crepuscular, sexually dimorphic members of the weasel family the same way again."  -- Sean Long, M.D., Ph.D., author of The Chinchilla That Found Me.
 

Now, Hedging and Betton proudly announces its latest publication, a searing tale of heartbreak, renewal and skin-shedding:

 

From the jacket flap: Ruthless predators, cold-blooded killers, just plain nasty -- that's what Bobbi Lynn Fowler thinks of the giant snakes populating her small town in the Florida Everglades.  Broke, alcoholic, and suffering from acute hemmorhoids, Bobbi even takes to hunting snakes for food.  But then Bobbi's best friend mysteriously dies and bequeaths her Lenny, a 15-foot long Burmese Python with a big smile and an even bigger appetite for life.
    
From the moment Lenny arrives in Bobbi's life, her fortunes take a miraculous turn for the better.  Whether it's the ex-boyfriend who refuses to leave Bobbi's trailer or the bill collectors who hound her at the door, the people holding Bobbi back and keeping her down seem to magically disappear.  As Bobbi's self-esteem grows, so does Lenny's size, as if he literally feeds upon her confidence.  And gradually, Bobbi begins to think of Lenny as less of a snake than her own scaly, forked-tongue savior.
   
Advance Praise for Squeeze Me, Lenny:
   
"A breathtaking debut.  A luminous addition to the canon of human-snake literature." -- Joan Lemmon, Professor of Zoology, University of Tiajuana
   
"Gripping, in the truest sense.  Proof that Pythons and humans share the same basic need for love and acceptance.  Oh -- and muskrats.  Lots and lots of muskrats." --  Lou Ferrigno, actor and author of What Your Hermit Crab Doesn't Tell You
     
"Jesus, help me [this was good]! I can't move [my eyes, away from the page]! Someone get this snake [his own children's book series]!" -- Dick Pritcher, Lenny's veterinarian and handler

I Aim to Befuddle

I'm at Errant Parent today, discussing my botched attempts at teaching my kids the Facts of Life.  To illustrate what a consummate failure I am in that department, you need only look at the diagram of the female reproductive system I made for my then-4-year-old son:

Confused? Disturbed? Not nearly as much as my son was.  That diagram planted ideas in the dark nether regions of his psyche.  Ideas like, "sexual intercourse is twisted and weird, like being trapped in a dream sequence in a David Lynch movie."  And: "when they're born, babies simply follow the directional arrows out their mothers' cooter."  I'm predicting years of therapy for the kid over this one.  Of course, I do sort of like the way I drew the lady's face to resemble Edvard Munch's The Scream, as that pretty much describes my childbirth experience. 

A Desperate Bid To Increase My Blog Traffic

It is with great dismay that I report that over 90% of my blog traffic is generated by readers googling "Pikachu thunderbolt attack".  For reals.  An additional 9%-plus of my traffic is due to google searches for "granny panties".  The remaining .001 percent is my mother, who is elderly and can't actually see what she's reading, which is really all for the best.

I could become dismayed at these stats.  Instead, I am emboldened.  No, I am not going to post naked pictures of myself.  That would likely result in someone's cardiac arrest and a protracted wrongful death lawsuit.  But while I'm unwilling to whore myself out for blog traffic, I'm more than willing to whore out my dog.

And so I give you . . .

CUTE PUPPY! CUTE PUPPY! CUTE PUPPY!!!!

CUTE PUPPY + CUTE KITTY = INSANE AMOUNT OF CUTENESS!!!  CATS AND DOGS! LIVING TOGETHER!

GAH! THE CUTENESS!! IT'S KILLING ME!!!

Ahem . . . now please excuse me while I go check my Sitemeter stats.

Your Mom Jeans Would Like A Word With You

Hold it right there, young lady.  Just where do you think you’re going?  “Out”, she says.  Out! Not dressed like that you aren’t.

What are those things you’re wearing, anyway – tights? Oh, they’re jeggings. Never heard of ‘em.  I don’t care if they’re “in”, they’re unflattering.  They thicken you, sweetie.  Your thighs look like something out of the 4-H fair.  Now, don’t get upset with me.  I wasn’t criticizing your legs – I swear! I love your legs.  They’re nice and sturdy. It’s just that those jeggings – well, honey, they don’t do anything for you.  They’re tacky.

Oh, I’m the tacky one, now? Really?  Well excuse me for hitting at your waist.  Excuse me for giving you some wiggle room in the hips.  Fine, fine – wear the low-rise if you want! Let your belly spill out like soft-serve! Go ahead and stuff those sausages of yours into skinny jeans! You’re a big girl now.  If you want to look like a train wreck, that’s your decision.  Just don’t split a seam when you sit down.

I can’t believe you’re shoving me to the back of your closet.  You don’t treat your other clothes this way.  You don’t tell your Land’s End Skirted Tankini she’s too “frumpy”.  Nope, every summer, you try on the one-piece you wore before your pregnancy.  And then once you’re done crying, you head off to the pool wearing that same damn Tankini –  just like every other Mom in the neighborhood. Don’t you girls know how to think for yourselves?  By the way, that built-in “support bra” isn’t supporting anything, little girl.  You can’t hold back a landslide with a bit of elastic and two foam cups – and I don’t care if it is “Miracle Foam”.

Sure, sure.  Now you’re trying on your skort.  You know how I feel about that skort, honey – she’s trouble.  Skirt or shorts? Seems to me she should pick a side.  Yes, I know it’s acceptable today to be “questioning”, but – did you just roll your eyes at me? DON’T YOU GIVE ME THAT LOOK.

I don’t think you realize just how much I’ve supported you.  Literally!  You carried twins, sweetheart.  Twins.   Just what do you think your gut was like after that C-Section?  I’ll tell you what it was like: a rubbery skin-paunch.  A melting flesh-sicle.  And I held it in!  Day after day.  Week after week.  Yes, the Spanx helped, too.  I’m not saying I did it alone.  But let’s see you try propping up ten pounds of spare tire.  It isn’t easy.

And now you just toss me aside, like I’m nothing.  Go ahead, sweetheart – I’ll be fine.  I’ll just sit here, alone.  Abandoned.  With that crazy poncho you never wear.  I won’t nag you any more, I promise.  I don’t want to be a bother.  But just remember, missy:  if you get pregnant again, don’t you dare come running to me.

On Thanksgiving, A Pilgrim Wench Goes Gangsta

I’m Mayflower, muthaf$$$a.  Don’t tread on me, or I’ll start a revolution on your ass.  I’ll take a musket to your head.  I’ll cut you with my whalebone darning needle (but then I shall quickly repent and beg the Lord’s mercy).

Me and my bitches, we’re gonna ride the buggy through the ‘hood.  It’s got yellow wheels, bra, it’s pimped out!  We’re gonna get crazy, y’all.  Gonna hit the peace pipe.  Gonna take the sewing circle outside.  We’ll be stitchin’ and bitchin’ -- without our bonnets on (weather permitting.  And if God wills it so).

What up, Miles?  You want some Prissy?  That’s right, you do – it’s pre-ordained.  I could give it to you all right, Miles.  Rough up your ruff.  Put the plum in your porridge.  You’d like that, wouldn’t you?  Well tough turkey: I already got me a man, and he’s a high roller (for Tristram is both a cooper and a wheelwright, as well as exceptionally tall).

So back off, Miles.  Go home to your ho.  No, not your wife.  Your hoe.  For the harvest season is upon us and it is a sin to be slothful.  Peace out, Miles (and peace be with you on this day of thanksgiving).

Vision Boards, of Varying Success

Dear Aussie Skank:

I tried, I really did.

I thought about what I want. I listed what I want.  I even made a vision board of what I want.  For reals! Check it out:

So here I am, months later, and my book has been turned down by every thirty-ish editor with a English/Women's Studies B.A. from a Seven Sisters College.  In other words, all editors have rejected me. Moreover:

• I want to increase my cup size to a generous 34D.  Instead, my husband left me for Shawna "Melons" Kapowski, lead dancer at the Titty Shack off the Schuykill Expressway.
• I want a house by the water.  Instead, my basement flooded, leaving me with a house full of water.
• I want Christian Bale, shirtless, pectorals primed and oiled circa Reign of Fire.  I want him to mysteriously arrive at my house and chop a cord of wood for me while I sip a cocktail.  Instead, this shows up on my doorstep and starts bitching about my clothes:

I think we can agree this is the wrong Christian.  Although I did appreciate the tips on finding a "slimming" pair of pants.

In light of the above, I have decided to think about nothing but your continued success and well-being.  Given my track record, it won't be long until you crash and burn in some horrific and (hopefully!) fattening manner.

Suck it, Sheila

Your disgruntled customer,
The Twaddler

***

Dear Secret-Lady:

Is very simple: Me want cookie.

No fame. No money.  No power.  No lady-monster to scratch my itch.  Just cookie.

See vision board?

Me think cookie.  Me talk cookie.  Me dream cookie.  Me is cookie!

Then what happen?

PBS tell me to cut back on cookie! Say it a "sometime food"! Now make me eat banana!

I get mad.  I complain.  Mrs. Obama phone me, tell me she has "secret file" on me.  White House threaten audit.  Mr. Noodle pull gun on me, make me hand over cookie.  He and Elmo dance on cookie while I cry.

Secret not work.  Please send refund, payable in cookie.

Sincerely yours,
Monster-Who-Want-Cookie

***

Dear Oprah:

Hey! Thanks for airing that segment on vision boards.  I thought you'd like to share mine with your readers:

Pretty easy to see what my goals are, right? Meow!

Anyway, I'm happy to report I've actually had some success with this vision board. Since I created it, three stray tabbies have come my way, adding to the eight beautiful kitties now sharing my apartment with me. The more the merrier, I always say!

My only quibble is that, while I'll never turn down a puss-in-need, my dream is not to own cats.  My dream is to be a cat.  On that front, I still have a ways to go:

It's all right, though.  With this vision board, I'm confident those plastic surgery funds will fall into my hands (or should I say "paws"?) any day now!

Can't wait for those whisker implants!
Guy Who Really, Really Loves Cats

***

To the Great and All-Mighty Oprah:

This vision board shit works.  Seriously.  This is mine:

And take a look at me now!  That's right, Light: I'm talking to you. You didn't think little old Neutrino had the nards, did you, bitch? Hell, you didn't even think I existed! You were all, "I'm so effing hot, 'cuz I'm a wave and a particle", blah blah blah.

Well, you can just eat my atomic dust, pal.  That goes for you too, Gravity.  You're next.  I'm gonna eff you up.  And then I'm gonna eff up Corbin Bleu.

Oprah rocks!
The Neutrino a/k/a
DJ "Calamitous" Nu
Radioactive Badass