It's All Blogger's fault...
Blogger has been so sluggish of late that my reading of blogs has been cut down. Nature abhors a vacuum, so this gives me the time to further mediocritize my own blog. My friend and pal is packing his things as his 60-day pass wanes and found our infamous "Steinberg novella", co-written in 1993.
But first, some research. I found the definition of "self-indulgent post":
S.I.P. -n - loosely, a post even your mother would say, "are you sure you want to post that?". The theoretical archetypal self-indulgent post would be excerpting from your co-written amateur sci-fi novel. This is to self-indulgent posting what Fred Astaire is to dancing.
As one ever ready to test boundaries, I will now excerpt portions. Reading it, I get the sense that it will stand the test of time, if time is narrowly defined as a 30-second interval. To give you an idea of just how bad it is, one of the character's names is "Bite MyAss".
We entered it in the Toast Point Bad Fiction Contest since they published everything, but I noticed after awhile they removed it from their website. We weren't good enough to be called "bad fiction" - now that's gotta hurt.
Without further ado! Plot: Gina and Johnathon are being taken hostage by thugs. Gina has special powers by virtue of being half-alien.
I tried not to feel overdramatic, as they half-carried us up the big hill, in my mind the hill of Calvary. The symbolism of the day ending as my life was ending brought tears to my eyes and I realized anew how difficult it was to get tears off your cheeks when your hands are tied. I had to rub my face against Gina's hair, which was not an unpleasant endeavor.
"Gina," I whispered, "we need to break loose don't you think?"
"Na baby na, don't cry-"
"I'm not," I protested a bit much, "it's my contacts!"
But then I remembered the rolling hills and vales of their farm and the music "Suddenly...last summer" came to mind. "Will summer never end, will summer never begin?..it takes me standing still...it takes all my will... when suddenly....last summer."
"Bite my ass, Bite Myass!", Herr said, uttering a line that cut Bite to the core. Buttahfinga had spoken the unspeakable, the one line that brought to mind a million childhood rages. Like a severed Achillies heel, Bite reacted with red-hot fury.
"Where are we?" Jonathan asked, groggy and weak from lack of blood.
"I carried you here to Aunt Mame's barbeque. Figured the smell of ribs would waken you."
[Gina says] "I am serious. I am half-Cabootan, which means I'm a little sharper in most of my senses than humans...Don't look at me like that! Don't hate me because I'm Cabootan, hate me because I'm beautiful!"
I gave an exasperated sigh while we cleaned up the wound. I wanted her to put alcohol on it, like they do in westerns, but neither of us drink much and so we didn't have any. She put nail polish remover on it instead, and it hurt like hell.
"I think we ought to go to a hospital, though I'm loathe to admit it," I said.
"Gina, tell me the truth - why is somebody trying to kill us and why do the words of MacArthur Park elude me? I've spent a lifetime trying to forget them, and now that I have, it scares me."
"Ok, you're entitled. You have a war wound to prove it. The fumes from the nail polish I used cause you to slowly lose all memory. Don't fuss, it's just till we're safely ensconced on earth or North Caboot & can check for bugs. If we're captured, I think you may be a teller."
"Yes, one who tells. Like I said, your memory will be returned and amplified when we're safe."
"What's a teller?"