The Three Kinds of Books You Find in Amazon's Freebie Section

The Three Kinds of Books You Find in Amazon's Freebie Section

 I'm cheap. Let me get that out of the way first. You know that ass-chafing toilet paper that can only be found in high school bathrooms and state mental institutions? I buy that shit by the pallet. I can no longer sit down without a highly intricate, air-filled cushion, but I save over $20 a year. And a raw ass is a minor price to pay for smugness.

I also have no hobbies (because those cost money), never go out to eat (because they always insist that you pay the bill at the end), and for all intents and purposes live the life of a monk, without of course the natty robes and chanting.

Playa, please.

My one guilty pleasure is books.

Like all cloistered weirdos, when I'm not locked in my bedroom shouting at cars from my window, I like to read. Unfortunately, books also cost money and going to the library would require both spending money for gas and human interaction--two things that make my balls retreat into my body faster than the French during, well any vaguely military skirmish.  

Their surrender to the Boy Scouts was particularly embarrassing.

So I routinely haunt Amazon's freebie sections for books to read.

If you've never braved this veritable oasis of spiritualism, pervosity (if that's not a word, I'm coining it), and failure, then let me introduce you. Books that Amazon gives away fall into three categories:

1. Christianity

Unless the struggle is fitting into a latex body suit, I don’t want to read about it.

Ranging from non-fiction treatises on minor biblical characters who once spilled Jesus's wine at a cocktail party to thinly disguised moral-themed fiction (even more thinly disguised than Twilight), Christian books dominate the freebie section. And the worst part about it is that they never tell you it's a Christian book. You'll be reading what you think is the word equivalent of eye porn, the main characters will tear off their corsets (or other antiquated undergarments), drop to their knees and instead of four paragraphs of people doing inhuman things to one another with a feather duster, you get...prayer. This is sadly a common theme. Just when things start to get good in these books, the characters burst into spontaneous prayer. And because in addition to being a cheap, isolated, loser, I'm also OCD, I have to finish reading these books. Here's a hint--at least one main character gets killed off in these things in the most random of ways in the denouement equivalent of, "I told you so."

2. Public Domain Books

 

Reading her is a chore, but admit it, you’d totally hit that, right?

If you were that one kid who read everything your high school teacher assigned you back in freshman English instead of stealing the Cliff Notes from your local bookstore (remember those?), then prepare to change your shorts. It's going to get wet up in here! This section is Jane Austen's playground. In a pinch, I'll download Oliver Twist or Moby Dick or some other shit I had, up until now, successfully avoided. Though it's hard to focus with all the ghostly laughter from my old English Lit teacher resonating in my head.

3. Indies

So many books…so little punctuation. Why, god, why!

Meaning independent authors. Meaning people not good enough to have been picked up by an agent, a publisher, or apparently a public school education. For the most part, the work is awful with a wanton disregard for the rules of grammar that would require someone like Judge Dredd or RoboCop to reign back in. And when it's not being awful, it's being derivative. Do a search on Fifty Shades and see how many ingenious indies incorporated those words into the title. Buying one of these books is like ordering a McRib and expecting, well any sort of meat by-product on a bun. But occasionally, these indies produce some real gems--innovative, creative, outlandish, even poetic. Nothing publishable, mind you, but sometimes for all the right reasons. I could list all my favorites (and there are a surprising amount of them), but after wading through a dozen different 'Christian romances' whose central theme is celibacy, I'm not in a sharing mood.

Jamie Wasserman is an indie author who frequently gives away his books on Amazon.

The Top Five Most Inapporpriate Lego Minifigures

The Top Five Most Inappropriate Lego Minifigures

Write what you know, the old adage goes. Sadly, as I've gotten older, my wheelhouse has shrunk from at least a passing knowledge of fine literature, philosophy, and cheap wine to Legos, American Girl, and good places to cry while at work (First floor men's room, by the gym. For some reason, it's like 95 degrees in there, always empty and smells like lilacs. You can turn off the lights, cram yourself under the sink, and settle in for a nice bout of self-pity and loathing).

All is not lost though. My toy knowledge is enough to make me the hit of any 8-year old birthday party. And getting to play with toys in a non-creepy context (with one's own children), is a great way to reconnect with your own youth and the kind of wreckless, f-the world abandon that only people whose soft spot just closed up can experience. It's fun and innocent and pure. Except when it isn't. Then it's awkward, inappropriate and unsettling in a way that only a serial-killing janitor working at an elementary school can convey. Like in these examples.

Top 5 Most Inappropriate Lego Minifigures

If you grew up in the 70's or 80's, odds are you had at least a few Lego sets in your room. And by in your room I mean scattered across the floor like barbwire for your feet. And maybe you even remember these guys:

Or if you were that rich kid with the swimming pool and the seemingly endless supply of Izod shirts, you probably had a few of these as well.

Aargh! We're made of plastic and seem non-threatening. But when you’re not looking we’re going to rape your sister’s Barbie doll and plunder your dad’s coin jar.

And that was about it. The little Lego minifigure had two facial expressions (happy and constipated) and about four outfits to choose from- cop, astronaut, pirate, and knight.

They made these guys look like United Colors of Benneton.

But nowadays, the Lego minifigure has evolved into an art form.

Don't even bother trying to look up her skirt. It's solid plastic.

And just like any art form, the bounds of good taste, common sense, and human decency often get pushed beyond reason (and sometimes bound up, gagged, and left for dead in an abandoned field).

Just like this but with less urine.

So without further ado, I bring you the five most inappropriate incarnations of the beloved 1-inch plastic figure who's been dry humping bricks in your bedroom since 1976.

5. Slave Leia

Not pictured: Chain accessory (seriously) and my raging hard-on

I didn't want to include anything from Star Wars here because 1) a few years back I had a two hour argument with my wife over whether it was approrpriate to show the original trilogy to my then five-year old son ("There's fucking Ewoks in there!" was apparently not a cogent argument for allowing him to) and 2) This particular figure stirs up some, um, special  memories for me. Boner related memories. In fact, all you have to do is just say 'Princess Leia in the gold bikini' and you can raise a trouser tent on anyone over 35. Fuck viagra. But here she is anyway. Just sitting there looking all coy and whatnot.

"Daddy."

And can you just imagine what happened when Jabba took her prisoner and started coming at her with that giant tongue of his.

"Hey, Daddy."

There's got to be some internet fan-fiction about that. I can't be the only one who's thought of that. And if not, I'm going to write it, by god. It'll be my Moby Dick.

"DAD!"

Not now son. Daddy's thinking about something.

Pictured Above: Actual glimpse inside my brain
(and the greatest photograph ever to not win a Pulitzer Prize). 

4. "German" Soldiers

They can sieg heil with the best of them.

That's what Lego calls these seemingly harmless little army men from their Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Ark series. German soldiers? You don't mean...?

Yup, Fucking Nah-zis

Maybe you don't remember Raiders of the Lost Ark. Maybe you just got out of a third world prison where the only thing shown on television was sheep herding and Antiques Roadshow. But those 'German' soldiers I mentioned...those are Nazis. As in Jewish-killing machines of hatred and goosestepping, knitted together from burlap, fascism and nightmares. And did I mention I'm Jewish? Not like Orthodox Jewish. I eat pork. I'm actually eating some right now. But still I'm not so leninent in my beliefs that I think buying my son a toy representing the fucking third-reich is a good idea.

I ask you, is there anything more unsettling than watching your Jewish son splayed out on the floor with a handful of 'german soldiers', making pew-pewing sounds (because all guns become lasers in the hands of a child), at a group of helpless and unarmed minifigures (i.e., Jewish refugees). Besides getting a colonscopy performed by Freddie Krueger, I sure as shit can't think of any.


3. Zombie

This one seems harmless enough. I mean, zombies are everywhere now. In kids cartoons, video games, books, etc. All that's missing is a breakfast cereal.

I stand corrected.

But having a little zombie to play with resulted in a very awkward conversation with my son. Kids have a natural ability to deconstruct things very fast (i.e., their bullshit detectors are very finely tuned). So our discussion, upon him opening up a minifigure pack and finding this figure went like this:

"Dad what's a zombie?"
"It's uh, a monster."
"Yeah, but what kind of monster?"
"Like a slow one."
"Does he eat people?"
"Um..."
"He looks dead."
"Uh...dead?"
"What happens when you die?"

<Mind you, I was trying to beat Candy Crush level 65 at this point. I was not prepared for a deep-seated philosophical discussion with a 7-year old about the ramifications of death. And also my tongue had inflated to twice its natural size and could be used as a flotation device>.

"Great Grandpa's dead, right? Is he going to come back?"
"Let's just put this back in the pack, okay?"

The Lego people went to great detail on this figure, putting our zombie in a ripped suit, just like the one we buried great grandpa in, and giving him a chicken bone to munch on (because apparently, this is a vegetarian zombie, though it still creates the problem that he would have had to rip it off a live chicken. I mean, can you imagine the plastic carnage?). Nevermind, it's still not as bad as...

2. Hazmat Guy

Because nothing says fun like cleaning up toxic waste. Notice the sweat on the guy's forehead? Shit, this guy is worried! Everybody run!

This was another one that seems pretty inocuous on the surface but became more troubling for the conversation it created. I'll spare you the blow by blow, but what started as a simple discussion about Mr. Hazmat guy's job description became a full blown discussion on global warming, the environment, recycling, depletion of natural resources, and worldwide planet extinction.

We're all going to die! Wait, what happens when you die...?

1. Oola

Fuck, I put Star Wars on here twice. Don't tell my wife.

In case you don't remember Oola, she appears for about 10 seconds in Return of the Jedi. Just long enough to entice an entire generation of future nerds with their first glimpse of side boobage (and for many, their only. Thank god for the pause button). Her outfit is knitted together (barely) from mesh and chains and bare skin and boners--something which would be perfectly acceptable at any fetish club, but not so much in your children's SpongeBob themed bedroom.

Even these guys wouldn't have her.

She's also a minor character in every sense of the world. She dances, tugs on her chain, and then thrusts herself down the gullet of the nearest Sarlacc monster (presumably to get away from Jabba's ginormous tongue). Does she deserve her own Lego minifigure? Hell no. A life-sized, anatomical doll? Abso-fucking-lutely. In fact, here's my bank card. Just take what you need.

Notice the detail, too, on this minifigure. After asking themselves if it was really necessary to make a toy of an actress who does nothing but dance suggesstively, dress sluttily, and die horribly (the answer was of course a resounding 'Fuck Yeah!'), Lego then asked themselves, shouldn't we church this completely pointless minifigure up a bit for the kiddies? You can guess the answer to that one. Notice the bare boobs drawn underneath the outfit? Yeah, that just happened. And your son is playing with him right now. You're just going to have to wait your turn.


You're welcome.

When Jamie Wasserman is not crying on bathroom floors or playing with Lego, he writes books. His newest is called Bud the Crud and unlike these minifigures, it's perfectly safe for the child in your life.

Bud the Crud and the Vampire-Werewolf Wars

Bud the Crud is live!

http://www.amazon.com/Bud-Crud-Vampire-Werewolf-Wars-ebook/dp/B00EL0YF1U/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1376653005&sr=8-1&keywords=bud+the+crud 

 

Also available on Smashwords and coming soon to Barnes and Nobles and in print!

 

Bud the Crud

I realize that I’m probably the single worst blogger on the face of the earth, but it’s not entirely my fault. Apparently, I have very little to say and rather than bore you with pictures of what I ate for breakfast (a granola bar, large bottle of Mountain Dew, and some weird looking pills I found in the back of my desk drawer), I decided to not post until I had some news.

 

So, for the two people reading this—mom and that kid who sat across from me in Spanish II—here’s some exciting news that is sure to change your reality, improve your posture, and cure that strange noise you make while peeing.

 

I received the galley for Bud the Crud and am in the process of doing the final revisions. I’m hopeful we’ll see the book in print in the next few months (maybe sooner). Also, for those jonsing for some vampire guppy action, a copy of the book will appear in Walter Knight’s upcoming release ‘Zombie Missouri’ (Penumbra Publishing). Come for the vampiric fish, stay for the southern zombies.

 

 

Taking a break

I’m taking a little break from ‘Chasing Tail’ and writing in general. I’ve enjoyed revisiting some of the places in England I loved so much, but I’m struggling with the characters. In addition, work has, despite my best efforts, really taken a front seat lately. A little hiatus is probably what I need to recharge and to get a fresh perspective on the latest book.

 

I’ll keep you updated on Bud. As of yesterday, the contracts have been signed. Still waiting on the final draft from Penumbra. If I had to guess, I’d say we’re looking at a January release.

 

Book 2 has already been edited and is ready to go. Hopefully, sales pick up to warrant it’s publication. My latest books have not had anywhere near the sales of Blood and Sunlight though I think they’re far superior (for whatever that’s worth). I’ve got high hopes for Bud.

 

Struggling through the holidays. Kids are in present overload and I am dire need of a Rumplestiltskin-like nap. 

 

Chasing Tail- Part 3

Victoria Station wasn't much better. The cab sidled to the front of the gothic exterior and got in line behind a long row of identical looking taxis, all driven by similarly complexioned men. Todd and Katrina wrestled their bags from the trunk of the cab into the cavernous and sickly lit main hall of the station.

While Heathrow was crowded, it was at least orderly. People of every nationality rushed this way and that, but always to get in line—for the Tube Station or airport security or to sample the new cinnamon pretzels.  Here, it was complete madness.

Throngs of people criss-crossed the hall in dozens of directions. Police officers moved calmly in between; large boulders moving slowly in a rushing stream. Occasional homeless people with wide, blue eyes got an even larger berth. Londoners, and they were easy to spot as they were the only ones not actually moving, loitered in front of the only pub, or leered over the nude models in the daily newspaper and the occasional tourist. Todd moved a little closer to Katrina. 

The whole place gave him the impression of a living organism. A terrible, mysterious creature whose inner-workings had not yet been understood. And he had just been swallowed whole. It was hard to believe that a country as crowded, as bustling, and hectic as this could house anything spectral or nightmarish as a werewolf. If even the idea of a lonely moonlit moor was a complete fantasy, too.

"Uh," was all he could manage.

"What time is it?" Katrina asked. She didn't wear a watch. Todd speculated that being beautiful meant never having to own a timepiece or a cigarette lighter or, and he said this without resentment, money. Certainly, there was no shortage of people just dying to give Katrina the time of day, but it was Todd who'd she chosen to rely on. That had to mean something.

"Noon."

"Our train's in twenty minutes. Better ask for help. If we miss it, we shan't get out of London. The next one's not until tomorrow."

That might not be the worst thing. London probably had nice hotels. And didn't his uncle say something about a Ritz and a wonderful place to eat pancakes with whipped cream near the British museum? Certainly a walk along the Strand lent itself more to an impromptu kiss than picking burrs out of your ass in a glorified meadow. But Katrina's pleading look told him that wasn't an option.

Todd searched the room. "There's a policeman over there." He gestured past a Norwegian tour group wearing plastic Viking helmets. He reached out to take her hand.

"I'll wait here," she said.

"But…" was all Todd managed. Claude once explained that you couldn't leave a pretty girl alone in a public place for longer than two seconds before some other guy would start chatting her up. The prettier the girl, the less time you could leave her by herself. Katrina, he figured, was about a one second kind of girl. So whenever she consented to being seen anywhere in public with Todd, he always swore off liquids for at least four hours beforehand. And, if for any reason, she had to go potty, he escorted her all the way to the door and back again. Better to date an uggo, Claude told him. You can go to the bathroom, comb your hair, and have time to pick up a pack of gum before you have to get back. But you do have to get back. Because eventually, someone's gonna be desperate enough to want to nail her, too. 

"Come with," he said, trying to make hurdling a bunch of drunken Norwegians acting exactly like a bunch of drunken Vikings sound appealing.

"I'm feeling a little flush," she said and fanned her perfectly white cheeks.

All that walking to and from the cab, Todd thought sourly. Or watching me carry your luggage. But he could see she wasn't budging. "All right. Stay here." He pointed to the ground for emphasis. "Watch the bags," he added, and gave his black Samsonite a look that said 'don't let anyone fuck her while I'm gone.'

To get past the Norwegians, he had to agree to downing two shots of a strange liquor that tasted exactly like dead fish and to give a sample of his best roar. By that time, the cop had moved on to sit sternly near the bathroom door and there wasn't anyone else helpful looking in sight. But from this new spot on the concourse, he spotted the train schedule, found the track they were supposed to be on, and even spied the exit that would take them to their train.

He sprinted back to Katrina who was, of course, talking to someone taller and much better looking than Todd and who was somehow successfully dressed in a pair of black of leather pants. Todd tried on a pair once. He looked and felt like a cow who'd suddenly lost 100 pounds and whose skin hadn't quite caught up yet. He hated this man instantly.

"That's so funny!" Katrina said and twirled a strand of honey-gold hair.

"I found the train," Todd said, ignoring the guy. "We better hurry." He put a huge emphasis on the We.

"Oh Todd, this is Colin. He's from London," she said, like it was some place magical. Like you couldn't swing a dead cat and hit twenty other douchebags with faux hawks from London right now.

"Oi," the man said and gave Todd the universal douchebag acknowledgement—a head nod.

"Oi," Todd said back and then took Katrina's arm. "C'mon. We've only got ten minutes."

"Good news. Colin's heading up North, too. He said he could drive us."

"Don't know if we're all going to fit, love. My Beamer is just a two-seater."

Of course it is, Todd thought and he realized something about Katrina. She didn't just seek danger. She attracted it. A trip to the English moors, sure. A ride with a stranger in a foreign country, why not!

"Is it convertible?" she asked.

"Whatever you like, pigeon." Colin winked. When Todd tried winking once, the girl asked if he was having a stroke.

"Would you mind if I went with him?" she asked Todd.

"What?" He couldn't even believe she was asking that. Not that he'd ever hold it over her, but he paid for the whole damn trip. He wasn't expecting a lap dance or anything in return, but it would've been nice, he thought, if she actually stayed with him.

"It's just, public transportation, you know. It's so gauche."

Todd gnashed his teeth together. No, he didn't know what gauche meant and he suspected that Katrina didn't either. If Katrina was incapable of protecting herself, well then he'd just have to be that much more vigilant. He tried another tactic. "You don't even know this guy. I'm not going to let you just wander off with some stranger." He dropped his voice to a whisper, but loud enough that Colin could still hear. "He could be a serial killer or something."

"All the serial killers are from America, mate." And in that last word, Todd heard a distinct warning. "Maybe," Colin said turning to Katrina, "I should be worried about you." And he poked her playfully in the stomach. "You wouldn't try to be luring a poor bloke out to the middle of nowhere to have his way with him, would ya?"

Katrina squealed and playfully hit his arm. Todd held back the urge to be sick. That little poke to Katrina's belly was farther than Todd had gotten in almost eight months of pursuit.

"Please," Katrina said then looked imploringly at him and he knew he had already lost. At least she asked, he thought softening. He snuck a glance at Colin. There was triumph on his face.

"Fine," Todd said.

"Yay, thank you!" Katrina threw his arms around his neck. "I'll meet you in Chatterton. At the pub."

"Chatterton? What the hell are you going there for?"

Katrina and Todd turned to look at Colin. He had stopped midway in the process of picking up Katrina's bag. His pasty British face looked a few shades pastier. "Is this a fucking joke?"

"No," Katrina said and she exchanged a look with Todd. "We're going to find Peter—"

"There's fuck all in Chatterton," he said. "Go somewhere else." And the way he said it, it wasn't a suggestion.

"That's where we're going," Katrina said and she turned the full effect of her green eyes and crossed arms at him. Todd almost felt sorry for the poor bastard. In a minute, he was going to be licking her shoes and begging to carry her there on his back.

But 'the look' had no effect on him. He threw the bag back down. "Forget it. No bird is worth going there." He looked at Todd. "Do yourself a favor, mate," and this time he said it as a plea, "Go to Newcastle. There's plenty of slags up there who'll give you the time of day and they won't go dragging you off to fucking Chatterton." 

He left muttering to himself about listening to his mom more and finding a nice, boring English girl.

Todd and Katrina exchanged a look then he glanced at his watch. The train would be leaving in five minutes. He could see indecision on her face. If ever there was a time to get out of this trip, it was right now. They could be at the Ritz in less than an hour.

But just then one of the Norwegians threw back his head and let out a long howl. It echoed across the main hall and for just a few seconds seemed to silence the entire station.

Todd and Katrina exchanged a nervous laugh. "We better get going," he said and he reached down to pick up Katrina's bag.

"I got it," she said and smiled weakly at him. And he led her towards the platform, the faint echo of the wolf howl, soon giving way to the high pitch scream of the train's mournful whistle.

Sparkly

This weekend I let my daughter paint my fingernails—she chose an alternating pattern of hot pink and yellow sparkles. While I looked fabulous, I completely forgot to remove it before my meeting packed afternoon today.

 

More proof that I should not be allowed to live in civilized society.