Letter to a Literary Agent
I've had it. I've fucking had it. I've lived with constant form rejection letters from brain-dead literary agents' flunkies while no-talent cunts like Sarah Palin and George W. Bush got signed to combined $14,000,000 contracts for ghost-written, plagiarized pieces of Republican propaganda.
But when I found out tonight that Christine O'Donnell, a woman who makes Sarah fucking Palin look like Margaret Meade on a great day by conspicuous relief, got signed to a book deal, I saw crimson. So I looked up her literary agent and discovered that not only was this bimbette signed to a huge contract by Trident Media Group, a literary agency that's rejected my books time and again with form rejection letters, she was snugly ensconced under the wing of its CEO, Daniel Strone.
What follows is a letter I just sent off to this unconscionable, money-grubbing douchebag just seconds ago. I hope you enjoy reading this orgasmic blast of rage and resentment as much as I enjoyed writing it.
Dear Mr. Strone:
You wanna know what I look for in a literary agent? A Great White in a fucking gabardine with enough talent and cajones to actually sell an unwritten book sight unseen by an ignorant, brain-dead zombie like Christine "Palin v. 1.1" O'Donnell. And you, sir, are exactly what I'm looking for, someone who's made a very, very handsome living amassing an enormous client list of people who generally don't write their own books. How George W. Bush, Sarah Palin and Joe the Plumber got by you is anyone's guess. Guess you can't win 'em all, huh? But congrats for essentially camping out on this lovely loser's doorstep like some half mangled chipmunk killed and left there by the family cat the minute you detected the faintest whiff of opportunity and money.
Anyway, I figure if you can sell unwritten books necessarily sight unseen by people who aren't qualified to write deli specials on a fucking white board at Kroger's, I figure you should have no problem selling an actual, written book by someone who actually has two neurons to rub together, someone who actually doesn't have a problem with masturbation, never dabbled in witchcraft, and actually knows the rudiments of the US constitution.
I know, I know, you're probably asking yourself, Yeah, but can he contort the truth like Glenn Beck, Jason Mattera and conservative blogger Pam Geller, all of whom signing huge contract deals with various publishers for sowing fear and discontent and basically doing to the facts what a bunch of Aryan Brotherhood psychopaths would do to a young blond newbie in the prison shower?
Well, that's the thing, Danny Boy. If these brain transplant candidates can get signed to high powered literary agents like you to huge book deals for essentially having bullshit ghost-written for them, think of what an effect The Truth would have on the somnolent American reading public. Think Bulworth, think The Candidate, think All the King's Men only without the dyke smoking endless cigarettes and the Huey Long corruption.
Anyway, my book is called The Mike Flannigan Diaries. Mike Flannigan is the protagonist of my bestselling Kindle book American Zen. He's a liberal investigative political journalist, which means he doesn't think before going to his keyboard, How can I make the reality-based community and Comrade Obama and liberals in general look bad?
Mike, you see, deals in the facts and correctly surveys the political landscape with the discriminating eye of a jeweler.
Now, I know what you're asking now: Well, Mike Flannigan, if he's the protagonist in a novel about politics and rock music and so forth, isn't real. True enough, Danny boy. Mike's my alter ego, my idealized version of me but he calls a spade a spade, unlike a Tea Bagger like Christine O'Donnell, who calls a spade a nigger.
And I know that my biggest handicap is that I'm not a "name", which seems to be the secret password or handshake toward getting one's well-shod foot in the doors of the Parnassian publishing houses. But neither was Pam Geller, a blogger woman who had successfully supplanted rational political discourse with baring her breasts. Apparently, all that was needed in her case was to reference an Ayn Rand novel in naming her right wing blog Atlas Shrugged to get prompt, enthusiastic grunts from the Right Wing Powers That Be on the Avenue of the Americas.
But where was Christine O'Donnell herself prior to this past election cycle? As recently as this spring, even Delawarians hadn't heard of her until a whopping 30,000 people voted for her in the sleepy Delaware Republican primary where she beat a milksop like Mike Castle. And if anyone besides Joe Biden has put Delaware on the map, besides the dead troops that stream off the transports of Dover AFB, it's Christine "I'm Not a Witch Neither Do I Finger my Clit" O'Donnell!
So give my idea a chance and please consider reading Mikey's dispatches from the previous 2 1/2 years at the Democratic and Republican national conventions through the '08 elections all the way to the '10 midterms.
Hey, if Joe the Plumber can get a book and a recording deal despite having no other talent than waxing his head and hating Obama and picking fistfights with Israeli journalists, then anyone can get published and make some serious pelf, right? And if America proves anything, Danny boy, it's that we can never have too many Joe the Plumbers and Sarah Palins.
I'm telling you, Danny Boy, if the American people love one thing more than bullshit, it's The Truth. It'll be boffo, bubby, boffo, I tell you. Have your people call my people and we'll do a Cobb salad at the fucking Four Seasons. I eagerly await your response, you fucking gabardined Great White, you. (Playful chuck on the chin)
Robert Crawford aka Mike Flannigan, aka Jurassicpork