You Suck, Nicholas Sparks

TO:  Nicholas Sparks  c/o Warner Books

1271 Avenue of the Sellouts

New York, NY  10020

Dear Nicholas ~

I have been very busy working on my novel lately, so I haven’t been blogging much.  But I am 260 pages into reading your book, A Bend in the Road and it has spurred me to action.

My darling Mr. Sparks – you should know that I am a deeply loyal individual.  And I have been on board since I found that crummy, lonely copy of The Notebook in the bargain bin at the local second-hand bookshop way back in the mid-90s  -  the copy that looked like it had never been read, wallowing in that bin because no one had ever heard of you, the book, or Rachel and Ryan.  But I took that little book home and fell in love with it, long before the big shots at Time/Warner.  I recommended it to friends, way back when you were still working in pharmaceuticals and hoping to become a writer.  I even started buying your books new so that you would receive the royalties.

I read your tips for new writers that you posted on your website.  I kept your success story in my head as inspiration.   It bothered me a little when you started churning books out as fast as the Kings and the Koontz’, but I still kept you around for nostalgia’s sake.

I even forgave you for your occasional bible-thump and that terrible movie with Mandy Moore.

Yet I find myself having to say this:  I want to start seeing other people.

Why, you ask?  The answer is simple, my bazillionaire friend.

Product placements.

I am halfway through this novel and I have already been told what specific brand of all-purpose kitchen cleaner the protagonist uses, that he received an application form for a particular credit card in the mail, I’ve been given the history of a particular popular soft drink and the guy’s kid has been taken to a much-loathed fast food joint for a ‘Happy Meal.’   (And unlike you, I won’t be naming names, not even if they do offer to compensate me.)

Now, there are so many levels of ‘fucked’  to this that it is almost impossible to determine where to start.  Really, I shouldn’t have to – isn’t it obvious?  But I’m on a rant, so I will find a way….

First of all – SERIOUSLY??  Seriously?  You really needed that year’s supply of McTakingovertheworld gift certificates that badly?  Gosh – I’m so sorry that all those movie deals and bestsellers aren’t enough to feed your family.  That really sucks for you.  I’m enclosing a donation of 10 bucks because I FEEL SO SORRY FOR YOU.

Second, if you HAD to sell your soul, could you really not find something better to plug than those particular products and companies?  I mean, c’mon!  Foods that cause cancer and promote global warming?  Chemicals that pollute the water supply and cause birth defects in marine animals?  Financial companies that are essentially loan sharks for the uneducated and unsuspecting?  Gad.  I mean, how about…oh, I don’t know…  “Miles kissed her passionately after writing out his monthly cheque for the S.P.C.A…”? Or “He jumped in his enviro-conscious Toyota Prius and sped to the scene”? Jesus, Nicholas.

I mean, with crapola books like Twilight, it wasn’t all that unexpected that the only thing the girl ate before she got turned into a vampire was a single brand of toaster pastries.  In fact, the overload of sugar and lack of nutrition seemed rather suiting.  But I really expected more from you.

Well, it’s been a good run.  I’m really going to miss you – probably more than you miss your soul.

So long, sucka.  Enjoy those colas.

Your former fan,

Drea M.

P.S.  Seriously, the term ‘all-purpose kitchen cleaner’ really has no place in any novel, of any genre, any time ever in history.  Just FYI.

On Telemarketers and Messing With Their Heads

[Another special post featuring Evil Drea]

Everyone hates telemarketers, right?  Not me.  I mean, I hate dealing with them, but as for the poor schmucks themselves, I always have this surge of pity for them.  If this is what they have to do for a living, well, let’s face it – their lives obviously suck worse than mine, right?  So who am I to judge?  I think I would honestly turn to prostitution first, personally.

Anyway, I got a call the other day from Janine of Safe Harbour Security.  She wanted to sell me a home security package.  Seemed like a nice enough girl.  But the thing is, and this I told to darling Janine, I work as an emergency dispatcher and while the company I work for mostly deals with the 911 system, we also offer our own alarm monitoring services.  So no offense, Janine, but if I get anyone to monitor my premises, it’s most likely going to be my own company.

This wasn’t enough for Janine.

I listened patiently for a while longer, but finally had to draw the line.  “I’m really sorry, but I’m just not interested.”

*silence*

Janine:  “Ugh…WHATEVER!”  *slam*

It was while I was sitting there staring at the phone, dumbfounded, that I noticed the applause.

Evil Drea was at my side, giving a standing ovation, whistling through her fingers and waving a placard that read, “10!”  (Some of you who have been following along know that ‘whatever’ happens to be, along with some choice four-letter expletives, one of Evil Drea’s most favouritest words in the whole wide world.)

Now, normally it requires duct tape and various other restraints to force me to step aside and let Evil Drea do her thing.  But then I remembered Janine’s tone of voice and with a gracious bow, I backed off and let Evil Drea have the floor.

This is the letter she wrote to Safe Harbour Security later that day:

Safe Harbour Security

ATT:  Manager of Call Centre Operations

Dear Sir/Madam:

I am taking a moment to write to you in order to offer praise for one of your employees with whom I had the pleasure of doing business today.  Her name is Janine.  Unfortunately, my call from this humble telephone service representative ended before I was able to extract further identification information from her, so it is my hope that you will be able to determine who I am referring to without too much difficulty.

You should give this girl a raise!  Rarely in my experience have I encountered such a pleasant and dedicated telemarketer.  She made my day!  Her empathy and eloquence stopped me in my tracks.  I can only hope that she serves as a role model for all of your other staff, as I know she has what it takes to go far.

I am now discussing the possibility of using your service with the rest of my household, all because of Janine!  I can only hope that I shall have further dealings with this lovely lady in the future.

Please ensure that she is made aware of my high level of satisfaction.  While I know that her karma will reward her in time for her good works, sometimes it is just nice to know that you are appreciated.

Have a great day!

Yours Truly,

[Evil] Drea M.

Some days, it just doesn’t take much to make me happy.

Barack – I Totally Relate, Man. Seriously.

 

Okay, I know by now you’ve all seen it – Obama’s ‘faux pas’ [*coughgoodone*] on The Tonight Show. 

You know, when you are as spectacularly famous and influential as Barack and I are, you have to be very careful.  Pretty much anything you say could be misconstrued and taken as offensive to someone, anyone.  ESPECIALLY anything humourous. 

It leaves us in a pretty pickle, us superstars.  I mean, the comedians that reeeally make me laugh are generally saying something that would piss somebody off.  Do I really care?  Hell, no!  If it’s funny, it’s funny, even if it’s making fun of me (that being said…watch your step, my friends.  Watch your step.)

But, like my dearling Barack, I too have to choose my words carefully. 

For instance – and this is just a random example, now – were I to make fun of my mother’s dog…or the way it alternates between trying to cuddle me and/or bite my face off (and there is good material here, people)…there is a strong likelihood that someone – say, one of my AUNTS – might read my blog and RAT ME OUT to my mother, causing her feelings to be hurt.  Just as an example.  Hypothetical, of course.

The self-censorship required to constantly be monitoring my words, second-guessing myself at every turn, ensuring that all are offended equally…er, I mean, to ensure that all are respected equally – it’s a full-time job.

Because there is no telling who is reading this.  I mean – suppose I were to blog about the misadventures of one of my former lovers and/or stalkers, and they were to google words such as ‘vampire’, ‘unmedicated bipolar disorder’, ‘kidnapping and hostage situations’, ’secret rooms’, ‘automatic redial’ or any number of things that could lead them to my ramblings about them?  Though I am cleverly disguised as ‘Drea M.’, there are a handful of them with IQs high enough to possibly figure it out.  And I shudder to think where that would lead.

And then there is the problem of the Rogue Publicist.  I’m sure Obama has to deal with this as well.  Though even the best of us need a break at times, and thus she comes in handy about once a month, Evil Drea has the potential of a loose cannon.  A tight rein is required, my friends – a tight rein.

In short, what this means is that:

If you weren’t all such a bunch of tight-asses, my blog would be a lot funnier.

 

Je Vous Adore, Mes Amies <3

On this magnificent holiday, bred to appease the capitalist corporations and push the lonely one step closer to suicide, I would like to offer you – along with my heart, of course – a few of my favourite romantic items, virtually.

A song (WARNING:  Contains hot semi-pornographic opening scene which *may* help you forget that whole breast-implant incident):

 

[What?  Marilyn Manson is romantic...?]

A movie:

 [Because if you're gonna fall in love, go big or not at all, man.  And it doesn't hurt to drop a bit of acid, either.]

But most of all…

A quote:

“Marry yourself first and promise to never leave you.”  – Sark

[Well, it's just smart.]

So share some love today, peeps.  Eat some chocolate.  Drink some champagne.  Laugh a little.  Have some wild hot monkey sex with your favourite lover.

But only because the media tells you that you should.  Tomorrow, it’s right back to being hateful.

Bow In Worship, Bitches…Evil Drea is Back!

Okay.  Yeah.  Soooo…the plan had been to let Nice Drea write this post, but she’s been nauseatingly happy lately and wanted to write about butterflies and rainbows and fucking lollypops or some such crap, so I – her sister, Evil Drea – was forced to intervene.

Nice Drea is now sitting in the corner where she belongs, gagged and duct-taped and glaring at me, and I am in full control of your vertical (and your horizontal, should you like it traditional.)

Welcome back to ME!

STUFF I HATE TODAY BY EVIL DREA

Dumbasses that don’t recycle.  Seriously, you morons – it’s not rocket science.  I’ve known 2-year-olds that were easier to train than some of you adults.  I mean, honestly, if the climate crisis were more selective, I wouldn’t care.  It’s not like the gene pool couldn’t use a little cleansing.  But it’s my fucking planet, too, and you’re stepping on my toes when you chuck that bottle in the black bag, baby.   So I’m telling you now and don’t make me say it again.  RECYCLE – LEARN HOW!

Shared office equipment with mystery keyboard gunk.  Use a freakin’ napkin, for god’s sake.

The men I date stealing all of my cutlery to do hot-knives.  Nothing wrong with a little toke now and then if you need it, but leave me something to butter my fucking toast with, assholes.

Socks.  Yeah, that’s right, socks.  I just hate ‘em.  They suck.

The Atlantic Ocean because of its current location, which is directly between myself and people I would like to be able to visit without an airplane.  The ocean is an asshole.

[Nice Drea:  "mmfffttt...beach...surfin'....mmfftt...."

Evil Drea:  *throws ashtray*]

Having cold feet.  Not the anti-wedding kind – that kind, I highly endorse.  No, I mean actual cold feet.  And if you even say the word ’socks’, I will kick your ass into tomorrow.

Wings.  The band.  I mean, do we really need any more proof that John Lennon and George Harrison were the only things holding The Beatles together?  RIP, guys – you are missed.  Paul McCartney’s a sap.  (Notice the omission of criticism for ol’ Mr. Starkey.  Who can make up their minds if he sucks or not, really?  He’s too strange.  Which puts him at least a couple of rungs above our Paulie boy, in my book.)

[Nice Drea:  *hums a few bars of "Silly Love Songs" with dreamy look on face*

Evil Drea:  *chucks a mug*]

Fishermen’s Friend throat lozenges.  If you happen to be fortunate enough to live in a land without such things, imagine Buckley’s cough syrup mixed with cyanide and vomit, solidified and disguised as candy.  Now you know what I’m talking about.  I’d rather eat razor blades.  I mean, really, whose fucking sick joke was that?  I hope they die choking on one of those things.

[Nice Drea:  *nods head enthusiastically*

Evil Drea:  We-ell...I guess I can set you free now that you're coming to your senses.]

Later, peeps.  ‘Til next time.  *rubs hands together with wicked glee*

And Now For Something Completely Different (with apologies to Monty Python)

WARNING:  Drea M. is on possibly-pms-related mental health leave at the moment, so her sister, Evil Drea, will be taking over for the duration of this post.   We will return to our regular programming once Nice Drea decides once again that her life doesn’t totally suck.

STUFF I HATE TODAY BY EVIL DREA

James Blunt – If I have to hear his whiny voice singing that fucking ‘You’re Beautiful’ song one more fucking time, rubbing it in that no guy who thinks like that has ever really existed in the history of TIME, and as if he isn’t totally gay anyway, andandand…just, well, I’m going to go all fucking postal on the radio.  Seriously.  Shut the fuck up already, James Blunt.

People who use ALL CAPS AND EXCLAMATION POINTS IN THEIR FACEBOOK STATUS’!!!!!!!!  Stop fucking screaming at me.

My stupid-ass hair, which can’t seem to decide if it’s curly or straight and which is running a serious risk of being sent to the compost bin if it doesn’t smarten up by the time the hairdressers open in the morning.

Chocolate-raspberry gourmet-roast, freshly-ground coffee.  Because it’s FRAUD!  Who would think that three such magnificent flavours could go so very, very wrong????  But it does.  Just the very words ‘chocolate-raspberry coffee’ should be considered false advertising and whoever came up with them should be forced to pay.  Speaking of which, I want my eight fucking bucks back.

[But you know what I do reallyreally like?  Sugar cubes.  Because they're reallyreally small and reallyreally cute and square and you can build miniature igloos with them.  Okay, sorry, back to the rant...]

Myself, when I’m trying to list things that piss me off and I keep thinking of crap that makes me happy.  God-fucking-dammit.

Again, myself.  Because the other day I had Messenger on in the background while I was designing a very complex database, just in case this guy I like called.  And when I heard the ‘ping’, I alt/tabbed to switch programs so quickly that the database crashed before saving and I lost all my fucking work.   Fuckity-fuck-fuck-fuck.  Fuck.  Stupid girly-fucking-girl.   (And don’t worry, Yvonne, this was at home, not at work.  Yes, I do these nerdy things even in my spare time.)

Weather that can’t make up its stupid mind.  Yesterday – 800 feet of snow.  Today – Plus 20 degrees Celsius/snow all gone.  Just fucking go back to being summer already.  Christ.

I think I’m going to go eat some chocolate now, and maybe kill off a few of my Sims just for fun.  Thanks for listening.