How to Make Money, the definitive guide

"Help us, Uncle Bluey!" I heard you whimper. "You posted so many wonderful hints on making money that we can't possibly keep track of them all! However shall we manage?"

Honestly. What would you do without me?

1. Porn
2. Specialist Entertainment
3. Tourism
4. Street Entertainment
5. Write begging letters
6. Prostitution
7. Cry on video
8. Work for websites
9. Sell your underwear
10. XXXXXXX

Still, that's enough of Nicky for now. The well has run dry. It's time for something else. And strangely enough, I'm not short of ideas yet. By twiddling Little Jimmy (as I call my third nipple) I'm able to tune into the psychosphere. My horns aren't just for show, readers; they're radio aerials. Let's see what ideas come out of the ether, shall we?

Ah, yes. Here's one. The Lawrence Dagstine guide to fame. Ten hints and tips to give everyone's favourite troll the acclaim he so richly deserves.

Stay tuned, folks.

How to Make Money #10 of 10

I held on for a while, waiting to see how things panned out. Surprisingly cautious behaviour, I know; believe me, I felt funny while doing it. Still, I'm back now, and I have the final top tip for Nickolaus if he's still interested in making megabucks. Still, this is an easy hint that's almost guaranteed to make money, so without further ado, let's crack on. Hang on, there's a knocking at the door…

INTERMISSION

Well I never. I didn't know I had a legal team. Still, they've told me that if I publish the last tip, I could be held liable for any consequences. Charges could be preferred and they'd actually stick too. If I had a heart, dear readers, it'd have been in my mouth.

Still, we came to an agreement. I can publish the tenth and final money-making tip for Nickolaus Pacione, but I have to redact most of it. Buggered if I know how this'll work, but here goes anyway.

XXXX XXXX XXXXXXXX XX XXXXXXX

XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXX XXX medication XXXX XXXX XXXXXX XXXXX XXX XX XXXXXX XXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXX XXX XXXXX XXX XXXXX XXX XXX X X XXXXX XXX XXXX XXX XXXX XX XX XX XXXXXX XXXX

XXXXX XXXX XXXX XX XXXX XXX XX XXXXXX XX XX $1.00 XXX XXX XX XXX X XXXXXXXXX XXX XX X XXX XXXXX XXX XXX X X XXXXX XXX XXXXXXX XXX XXXX XX XXXXX XXX XXXXXXXXXX XXXX

XXXX XX XXXXXX XXXXX $100 X XXXX XXX XXXXXXX XXXXX

Whew. Right. That's your lot. I'll post a list of links to all ten money-making tips next, and then after that I can write about something else. Thanks, Nicky. You've been an absolute riot.

Where's the next money-making tip then?

I've no doubt you're all wondering where the grand finale to my series of money-making hints for the budding author has got to. Will it ever materialise, I hear you ask. Will I just do my disappearing act again and re-emerge a few months later hoping you've all forgotten about it?

Wait and see, readers.

Well, okay, being mysterious isn't my style, but it was worth a try. Truth is I'm waiting for the reports on Nickolaus's appearances in public to appear. The tenth hint will be based on his performance, and should be a fitting conclusion to the series.

How to Make Money #9 of 10

Blah blah blah, you know the drill by now, you all know what this is about. Insert line describing Nickolaus's level of poverty and indignation here; add a quip about how I'm going to solve all his problems, just call me Trinny and Susannah with three nipples and goat's hooves. Let's just get on, shall we?

Sell your underwear

Long-time readers of Bluey's Corner will be painfully aware of Nickolaus's attempt to sell his jeans. Nick, I can tell you right now, hand on my heart, that you're doing it wrong. The online sale of used clothing is a niche market, Nickypoo. You have to find an audience and sell to them, not simply slap a random garment online and hope someone'll go for it! Play to your strengths! Now, the way I see it, you have two resources you can exploit when dealing in second-hand clothes: your unique approach to physical hygiene and your squeaky voice. You could easily go into the soiled underwear business. Just go on YouTube, dress up like a Japanese schoolgirl, and burusera enthusiasts will be beating a path to your inbox. Now, you may have to splash out on a schoolgirl uniform and a few pairs of panties to begin with (not like that, naughty!) but the return on investment is potentially enormous.

BONUS MATERIAL

I'd like to quote the best thing Nickolaus ever wrote, ever ever ever.

A pair of Wrangler Jeans

These jeans are a little small for me but they are still in good shape. They're good if you're camping or going out somewhere. Not the kind of jeans you wear with basketball shoes but if you got some boots or something they come in handly. they are a 32 waist by 32 inseam. They just shrunk. They are faded black.

How to Make Money #7 of 10

Okay, let's review the situation now this series is but three hints away from drawing to a close. Your name is Nickolaus Pacione and you consider yourself an up-and-coming horror author, who's so horribly discriminated against just because he sent a few piffling threatening emails and told a few porky pies. For that reason, wealth, fame and hand-jobs from anyone other than yourself have eluded you, dancing away from your grasp like some big dancy-away-from-your-graspy things. It's the worst kind of hate crime! People from every race, creed, religion and background have come together and are saying bad things about you, just because you're a doughy-faced hate-spewing parasite who'll say anything just to get a bit of phony validation. This prejudice against malodorous shithorns is on a par with the murder of Kitty Genovese!

Why can't they just leave you alone?

Why can't they just give you some money, say you're the best thing since sliced Lovecraft, offer you a few women and then leave you alone?

Cry on video

This should be an easy one for you. Basically your image problem is that you haven't been able to snare the audience's sympathy. People have come to see you as a bit of an ogre. Admittedly a rather squeaky-voiced puny ogre, but an ogre nonetheless. It's not too late to show the level of emotional upset your critics have caused. Case in point: Chris 'Leave Britney alone!' Crocker. You know who he is, or at least knew well enough to post a 'silent retort' to his tear-laden plea. Regardless of the reaction to his video, he did pretty well out of it. It got him TV appearances, a development deal… think about what something like that could do for you. Take a leaf out of his book and weep, you fucker, weep!

How to Make Money #6 of 10

Since Nick's not offered his opinion on any of my guaranteed sure-fire can't-miss get-rich-quick win-fame-and-adulation-and-influence strategies, I can only assume he's out there, trying them out and raking in those pennies. To him I can only say "Have patience! We are but halfway through this guide and before long those pennies will become pounds!" Or dollars. Or whatever currency might actually be worth anything these days. The Latverian Zlotnik's supposed to be quite strong these days, so if you move to the Marvel Universe chances are you could be quids in.

Still, enough waffle from me. You want the sixth hint to help you rake in your well-deserved income, don't you? Of course you do.

Prostitution

Bit of a tricky one, this. You might think you haven't quite got what it takes! It takes courage, you might think. It takes looks. It takes at least a minimum standard of personal hygiene. Well, aren't you lucky? The tactic I propose requires absolutely none of these things. All it takes is a low enough self-esteem to go out as you are and approach random strangers. Now, you can't expect a particularly high hit-rate from this, and in a way that should be a relief. After all, vaginae are scary, scary things with teeth in them, and as for penes? Well, if you so much as look at one of them, Nicky, even your own, you may become pregnant! But fear not! This attempt at whoring yourself out won't require you to take your clothes off at all. You're not after clients who will pay you to stick your wee-wee in them or vice-versa. You're after the others. The ones who will regret it immediately after agreeing to take you on, fobbing you off with five bucks; or else will mistake you for a mendicant, busker or even a performing monkey and just press a handful of loose change into your grubby paw. That is your target audience. People love to see someone worse off than themselves, you see; makes them feel better. By essaying the role of a shambling cadaver-in-waiting reduced to renting out his scabrous mouth and flaky old ringpiece for the sake of a handful of pennies, you are certain to evoke some sort of reaction and charitable response.

Bonus hint: try this with policemen. They might even give you a bed for the night.

How to Make Money #5 of 10

This next money-making tip is a doozy, Nick, as it actually requires you a) to write and b) to communicate with people. You may think that's easy, but just you wait until you see it. It'll tax every last one of your hidden reserves, forcing you to dig deep within yourself.

Write Begging Letters

I've seen it mentioned that you're after a grant to help your publishing company, or whatever the hell it is you call that card table you've set up in your grandpa's garage. That'll require filling in forms and dealing with the whole impersonal process of finding out whether or not you qualify for X, Y or Z; how it'll affect your benefits, and then waiting for your application to be processed. Why not cut out the middle man and write a series of grovelling letters to the great and the good seeing if they'll part with some of their money? The trick here is to look back at all your previous communications with members of the public, be they writers, editors or readers. Now do the exact opposite. Demands for money via PayPal tend only to work approximately 0.0001% of the time, and that's my optimistic estimate. Only on one occasion have I responded favourably to a request for money involving the word 'bitch'. (The request, by the way, began with the words If you lend me a tenner 'til Tuesday I'll be your…) Don't bother with any of this talk about being a budding writer and publisher. Just pretend to be an abandoned child whose heart has burst into flames à la the Caliph Vathek, who needs the money for a glass of water in a pitiable attempt to put out said cardiac conflagration. You'll receive any number of withering rejections, but eventually someone will take pity on you. Just remember to really lick boot. Someone will bite eventually.

How to Make Money #4 of 10

This is the best idea of the lot, really it is. Hope you're reading this, Nick. Make sure you bookmark this post because this tip could change your life.

Street Entertainment

This is possibly the most difficult way of raising your profile, but it's well worth it. For this you'll need a friend, or at least someone who can spend more than five minutes in your presence without holding his nose. Make sure he's bigger than you. That bit won't be quite so difficult, obviously. Now, take off all your clothes (don't worry, the hair will cover most of the worst of it) and put on a bright red waistcoat and a fez. Your friend (preferably blind as well, actually) should have a music-box, an organ, accordion, concertina or a jack-in the box. While he plays, you dance. Don't worry about your complete lack of physical grace. Just pause occasionally to masturbate and in a poor light you should pass for a monkey.

How to Make Money #3 of 10

Here's the latest in a series of fundraising tips for everyone's favourite dark conservative. Please note that these tips are not guaranteed to work for anyone with more than two brain cells to rub together. If you want to try these hints out, be sure to devolve into a malodorous little goblin with all the charisma of a glue-sniffing mollusc before making your attempt.

Tourism

You've inspired a kind of train-wreck fascination, Nick. Make use of that by opening your home up to tourists! See the two kitchens! Take in the sights, the sounds, the smells (if they neglect to buy one of the $10 nose-pegs). I daresay your grandparents will be entitled to the lion's share of the profits but you could always make figures of yourself out of pipe-cleaners and sell them for 50c per item.

How to Make Money #2 of 10

Let's recap. You are Nickolaus Pacione, and despite your best, well, second-best, well... crap efforts, you still haven't struck it rich. Just where and when are you going to get all that lovely moolah that you should have by now? At the last you've come here, desperate for ways of raising a bit of the old folding green. Dear reader, Bluey shall not disappoint.

Specialist Entertainment

Now, this scheme involves two of your favourite hobbies: bondage sleepsacks and getting beaten up by children. It will require an initial expense of about $20, though, and require you to actually go outside. Spend the $20 on a load of cheap plastic toys and individually-wrapped sweets and you can market yourself as Nickolaus, the human Piñata. Simply secure yourself in the sleepsack with the sweets and toys, have someone haul you up with a nylon rope and the children can lay about you with sticks. After three whacks, simply unzip the sleeping bag and drop the prizes. Charge $50 a go and that's $30 clear profit!

How to Make Money #1 of 10

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So then.

Given my name (Bluey) and the colour of my skin (#336699) anyone could easily assume I was making some kind of political statement. Long-time readers, back from when I was a mere agent of mischief confined to 280 pixel by 280 pixel panels, will no doubt remember that I enjoyed ripping the piss out of the neo-conservatives while they hung onto the reins of power with all the tenacity of a <INSERT STEREOTYPE HERE> in <INSERT FAVOURED HOBBY OF AFOREMENTIONED STEREOTYPE HERE> season. So naturally, seeing said reins of power snatched away from them was something I wanted to see, right? Right?

Well, this mood of jubilation may be all well and good, but you'll forgive me for not joining in the celebrations. For the moment, the power-mongering, the continual invocations of faith as justification for human rights abuses, the pointless sabre-rattling and determination to alienate America from the rest of the planet is in abeyance for a little while at least. Even the French are saying on TV how much they like you, for fuck's sake.

I'm out of a job now. You bastards. Never consider my feelings, do you? Here I am, I've blown I don't know how much money on the John McCain Wheel-o-Rage™ and the Sarah Palin Magic Eight-Ball (guaranteed useless and backward opinions on any situation) and now they're just going to gather dust along with the Michael Dukakis Charisma Container (viewable only through an electron microscope), the Howard Dean Shriek-box (200dB, wear supplied ear plugs before using) and the 10,000 John Kerry Prosthetic Chins I bulk-ordered.

Shit.

Hallowe'en Costumes #2

Today's costume is for those of you who still cling to your religion like a security blanket, and want to reclaim Hallowe'en from the grubby chocolate-stained fingers of self-indulgent children.

Devout Reclaimer of Religious Holidays

You will need:

• Sackcloth
• Ashes
• An absence of food in your belly.
• The Holy Bible and other texts, treatises and tracts.

Begin a week before Hallowe'en. Focus your mind on All Saint's Day: the day after Hallowe'en. Consult your treatises and tracts for references to all the saints commonly venerated by every Christian denomination, just to be on the safe side. You don't want to be caught following the example of St. Tadger only to find that your denomination considers his canonisation to be the heretical action of an anti-pope, one no more fit to lead a church than an agnostic milquetoast. Compile a list of these saints, a brief overview of their good works and in particular the manner in which they were martyred. With the profoundest misery in your heart, retreat to your hovel and begin fasting, whiling away the empty hours by meditating on the violent and painful manners of their demises. Think of St. Andrew and St. Peter, nailed to their respective crosses, hanging there as they waited for our Lord to end their pain and bear them away to Heaven.

Not many will be sharing this experience with you, but do not allow a glimmer of pride to burn within your breast; crave only that icy pang of loneliness and misery. The absence of food in your belly should come in handy here, giving you the right idea. If you feel insufficiently wretched by this stage, seek to heighten your physical discomfort. Daub your face with ashes and don your sackcloth. Do not waste time on tailoring; simply tear holes in the jute sack for your arms and head. That will suffice.

It is highly likely that at some point you will find yourself growing bored with your meditations on the nature of martyrdom and the mortification of your flesh. This is only natural. It is of course entirely shameful as well, so at the first sign of boredom you may wish to scourge yourself. If you have no scourge set aside for the purpose, simply immerse your hands in scalding water and in your agony take up your Bible and read through Leviticus, all the while craving forgiveness from your Creator. That'll teach you.

The day before Hallowe'en, you may wish to make some preparations, anticipating as you are the arrival of demanding, sugar-addicted sprogs. Do not disappoint them! Decorate your house according to your new style by removing all pictures, all sculptures, all caricatures and anything else that might distract the eye from the simple purity of your house. As a rule of thumb, if it is gaily coloured, then it should be hidden away, smudged with ashes, or else destroyed. After an hour of this you may feel a kind of mania overtake you: imagine yourself raving under your breath, speaking in tongues and tearing the curtains from your windows and burning them in the rusted and pitted old iron fireplace. This is nothing at all to be ashamed of: the Lord has gifted you with a state of ecstasy.

But wait! What of the children themselves? Here they come now, dressed as demons and witches and the foul undead! Should they be turned from your hovel with naught but a clip round the ear to warm them on these bitterly cold nights? Never! You are on a mission. You must win their souls, sparing them from damnation. You have a long struggle ahead of you, and the role you play is but a small one, but do not become disheartened.

"Trick or treat!" they will demand; small gifts and sweetmeats in exchange for a freedom from dog's excrement through your letterbox. "Trick or treat!" You will need to prepare some treats for them. Something to remind them of their humility, and to allow you and all right-thinking people to rally against the rampant commercialism of this festival. But how should we diminish the influence of Mammon on this eve of All Hallow's Day?

The answer, my friends, is simple: gruel. Prepare the slops in the manner prescribed by the inestimable Mr Key, and when the tinies come bounding up to your door, proffering bags, baskets and other receptacles for you to fill, do so with three generous ladles of gruel. You will feel a thrill of warmth in your heart as the insipid grins fade from their grimy faces. But wait! your good deed is not yet finished! Offer a brief prayer for each of them to turn from the path of sin. This done, you may close the door with a hearty slam. You have done your part. Now they must do theirs.

Costumes for Hallowe'en

The end of October is fast approaching, boys and girls; no doubt some of you have already started carving faces into any variety of large, seedy fruit; the shops are out of pumpkins and you've worked your way down through marrows, cucumbers and God help you, you're even trying to cut a spooky face into the last tomato in the fridge. The one that's right at the back of the fridge and has patches of white mould on it.

Some of you are even less well prepared, and haven't got any costumes sorted out yet. Well, don't worry. Uncle Bluey to the rescue! I'm bursting with ideas, me. You want to embrace the world of horror for one night a year? Just follow these directions.

Costume #1: Nickolaus Pacione

Hallowe'en means horror, and what could be more horrific than a horror writer? Well, I really don't know. I couldn't find a horror writer for you to emulate, though, so instead you can try dressing as Nickypoo. You will need:

• A hooded sweatshirt, commonly described as a 'hoodie'.
• Sweatpants.
• A baseball cap.
• A pair of white sneakers.
• A bottle of correcting fluid: Tipp-Ex, White-Out, anything you like.
• Four pounds of dough.
• A pot of pale grey poster paint.
• One pound of hair, harvested from random locations.
• A pot of glue.
• A pint of urine.
• A pint of sweat.
• A balloon of helium.
• An old woman.

Begin by taking the hoodie and sweat pants, drenching them in the urine and leaving them out to dry. If possible, find a location frequented by smokers: the heavier and more frequent their nicotinal indulgences, the better. Abandoning the clothes at the back door of an office building is a good idea. The front door of a bar is even better as someone will probably empty their guts over said rags, or top up the quantities of urine in which it has been soaked.

Once the clothes are dry, or are merely damp and cloying as opposed to thoroughly soaked and dripping, take the bottle of correcting fluid and daub designs onto the legs of the sweatpants and the front of the hoodie. Feel free to express yourself as much as you like, but if you are short of ideas, try the following:

• A quote from Spectral Exile or Insect. Make sure to quote a whole paragraph. If you find you have to write small, don't be too concerned. He wasn't, so why should you be?
• The address of one of his fifteen million blogs or profiles. Make sure the address is really long so people know just how important it is.

While you're waiting for the correcting fluid to dry, you can start to attend to other details. Take a handful of dough and with cack-handed earnestness apply it to your face. Pay particular attention to the cheeks, under the chin, and the nose. After five minutes' sculpting you should have something that resembles horror's self-proclaimed bad boy. Repeat this step of the process as many times as you consider necessary.

Take the remaining dough. Stuff a small ball of it into each of your cheeks. Resist the urge to chew and swallow. What you're doing here is rather like Marlon Brando's use of dentist's cotton balls in The Godfather. The last bits of the dough can be applied to your chest and stomach to provide extra bulkiness.

Your face should now look sufficiently doughy, but you have yet to attain the unhealthy pallor as worn by everyone's favourite dark conservative. That's where the pale grey poster paint comes in. Apply generously to all bedoughed areas. If you feel the shade of paint you have chosen does not adequately reflect his skin tone, try mixing with a dab of orange or rubbing quantities of grime into the paint. A drop of glue can help you add the right level of greasy shininess. Experiment and have fun with the result.

You're nearly there now! Persevere and you'll have the whole thing down. Take your handfuls of hair. It doesn't matter where you got them: cut from the tresses of your own dear sister; your father's own short and curlies, or even scrapings from the backs of a herd of pigs. They'll all come in handy. Paint an oval of glue over your chin and upper lip and affix the hair wherever it'll fit. Before long you'll have the famous Pacione bloatee.

Give the glue time to take. Don your rancid and feculent garb, crowning yourself with your baseball cap – no gentleman should go out without his chapeau. Dab quantities of the sweat under your arms and between your legs. Allow a dribble of the secretion to slither horribly down your back and into the crack of your arse. Help yourself to a hearty swig from whatever's left in the bottle.

Before you open the door and go out into that bitterly cold late-autumn night, make sure that you have your balloon of helium and your old woman. These two pieces of kit are all that stand between your disguise and complete failure. Before speaking, take a feeble suck from the balloon so the timbre of your voice is modulated. This, combined with the putrid dough in your cheeks should ensure you are sufficiently mush-mouthed to make your impression convincing. You can hide behind the old woman if you fear that anyone may try to give you your well-earned beating.

Follow these instructions to the letter and you will be nothing less than convincing. More costume ideas later!

Tractor.

"You know what you need, Bluey?" that fat bastard at slacknhash.net asked me. He's fond of rhetorical questions like that 'cause he thinks it makes him sound clever. "What you need, old son, is a space of your own. Your own blog, out there in the blogosphere, with other blogs from bloggers who blog about bloggy things with blogs on. Then we can syndicate your RSS feed onto the home page, it'll all be very clever and give me a chance to do stuff I've not done, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah…"

He may have been trying to make some kind of point about something, but that was the time I switched off. He's a nice guy, but – no, that doesn't work. He's an okay sort of person – that doesn't work either! I'm not having much luck with this, am I? One last try: there are times when his company might occasionally be tolerable, but despite that his head has a tendency to relocate itself up his arse. I know what he really had in mind, though. I know when I'm not wanted.

It's like when you're a kid and there's a party to which you've invited your classmates and then you get round to the kid that smells of Dettol. The one whose parents aren't all that well-off and give him a stupid haircut. The one who's got special needs, and his special need is to spend every lunchbreak from the ages of eleven to eighteen impersonating a tractor. And you can't tell him he's not invited, as that's a bit mean. He can't help it, can he? So you tell him he's been so good that he can have a party all of his own, at his house, in his room. And he seems happy with that.

I've just received the same treatment, haven't I? Here I am, thirtysomething (probably) and I smell of Dettol. And I've been so clever, so funny, so incisive, that I get to have a blog all of my own.

brum brum brum brum brum brum beep beep beep beep brmrmrmrmrmrmmmmm...

Comics

Today I'd like to address the issue of comics. Long-time visitors to the site will be aware that the humans who claim to run this place have used it as a test-bed for a number of comic strips that have had varying lifespans. Hell, even I was one of them, but they couldn't keep me trapped in their panel borders. Oh no. By the mystical power of my third nipple I escaped, and now they'll be sorry, moo hoo ha ha.

You know, some might say that after starting and abandoning half a dozen strips, and not posting any for months, that Phil and Tab ought to just write the whole thing off as a bad job and try something else, but you know how it is, chums and pals: they just won't take my advice.

Still, while we wait for them to revive Dung Eon for the umpteenth time, here are a few comic strip ideas that never made it as far as the drawing board.

The Three-Legged Ballerina

Fourteen-year-old Margie Fountain has dreams of being a prima ballerina, but her dreams are confounded by her unfortunate physical deformity: a great big hairy supernumerary leg sprouting from her stomach. Readers will be inspired by her bravery in the face of withering criticism from Miss Scabbymouth, her evil ballet instructor.

Boy Meets Malodorous Retarded Man-Child

Bobby Greening-Wood is seventeen and out of the closet. Forced by homophobic teachers to drop out of high school, he is forced to make a living on the mean, mean streets. Looking for work and love in all the wrong places, you'll be touched by his struggles and his attempts to get a commitment from Nickolaus, his on-again, off-again mentally impaired boyfriend. Will Bobby get that GED, that job, that apartment, that malodorous retarded man-child? Will Nick ever realise his dreams of becoming a horror writer and succeed in appearing to be straight without upsetting the love of his life? You won't find out here.

Head Cold

The adventures of Walt Disney's cryonically-frozen head. Cold! More cold! Ice! Liquid nitrogen! Ice crystals! Tissue damage! Even more ice crystals! All this and less as each strip details the preservation of the cartoon maker's severed head in the unlikely event of medical science ever coming up with a cure for lung cancer, death and subsequent decapitation and freezing.

Doctor Who: the Between Monsters Years

The Daleks have yet to resurface. The Cybermen have been quiet. Ditto for the Sontarans. The Master hasn't been heard from since that business with the assassination of the Lord President of Gallifrey. The Key to Time caper has been wound up, and the Randomiser you fitted to the TARDIS never takes you anywhere fun. Romana's made it quite clear that she's not interested in taking things further, and you can't be arsed to wait for her to regenerate and change her mind. How's a Time Lord supposed to kill time? Join the Fourth Doctor as he tries and rejects a series of increasingly bizarre hobbies before, faced with 750 years' worth of pent-up sexual tension, finally fitting K-9 with a sailor's friend. Affirmative, Master!

Take whatever comfort you can from the fact that my minions have some kind of rudimentary quality control going, because it could have been far, far worse…

Originally posted to slacknhash.net on August 31, 2008

God is on your side – for the right price.

Another lengthy absence, but bear with me, chums and pals: I have a very good reason for it. (I know, I know, you've heard that one before.) You see, during my holiday I found God. In fact, I found lots of gods. The one true god; secret and ineffable demiurges; strange nameless deities who are only knowable as effigies of wood and stone; and dozens of pantheons whose powers extend over the mortal sphere and the implacable elemental forces. And having found them, I want to share them with you.

Today marks the grand opening of Bluey's Imprecatory Prayer Service. Have you ever wondered what it'd be like to have God on your side? Well, wonder no more, boys and girls! No longer will you have to attend services, offer sacrifices, or even say your prayers. What I offer is the single greatest leap forward in labour-saving divine intervention technology since… since… well, since ever.

Oh yes indeedy do! For a modest fee, we here at BIPS will handle your religion for you. Do you want prayers offered to Saint Fiacre to cure your piles? An appeal to Allah, who is just and merciful, for a clear head in these trying times? A hecatomb offered to Ares for victory over the Athenians in battle? The nipple-tweaking ritual of Hok Pok Gaar to ensure your enemies die of terminal nose-bleeds? Just send your request to Bluey's Imprecatory Prayer Service and we'll work out a reasonable price to cover time, materials and deities invoked. Satisfaction guaranteed!

Originally posted to slacknhash.net on August 30, 2008.

Jesse Helms

Despite already having given some thought to the subject of people dying and not generally keeping our traps shut, I simply couldn't resist saying something when Jesse Helms celebrated Independence Day by expiring. Once again I'd like to share some words from another luminary: the much-missed Bill Hicks.

You know what would make tightening my belt a little easier? If I could tighten it around Jesse Helms' scrawny little chicken neck.

Ah, I feel better about the sacrifice right now! You fucking tobacco-pushing motherfucker! You are the worst fucking drug dealer in the fuckin' world. you scrawny, right-wing, fear-mongering sucker of Satan's cock! You suck Satan's cock, you fuckin' chicken-neck little fuckin' cracker!

I'd tighten my belt if that were the case. I'd eat baloney for a week. I'd sacrifice.

Originally posted to slacknhash.net on July 4th 2008.

George Carlin

George Carlin is dead.

I suppose some sort of gushing tribute is in order; some homily about how the world's a less funny place now he's gone, how there'll never be another, just like we said about every comedian from Max Miller to Bill Hicks.

Sod that for a game of soldiers! If you think for a moment that I'm going to get all maudlin just because another comic icon's health finally let him down you've got another think coming. At what point did this become a tradition? To spend a few minutes crying into our beer just because some guy we probably never met and may have thought (quite rightly too) that we were a bunch of wankers finally popped his clogs? Nope. Sorry. When it comes to death, you won't get that sort of public wailing out of me any more. I've got better things to do.

There's a very good reason for this, believe it or not. And hopefully I've got some of you upset enough to read on. The reason I'm not going to post my own platitude is that various people in the (ptui!) blogosphere have posted their own tributes to George Carlin. People I know and like, too. Clever people, even. But I've come to think that their motives are dubious. What they say could be applied to any comedian, Hell, you could even say it if Carrot Top and Larry the Cable Guy died (unless they die in some kind of autoerotic asphyxiation experiment gone horribly, horribly right of course). It's sad, he was funny, now he's dead… because what they said was so damn generic, their mourning isn't about the guy who's dead at all. It's about themselves. Oh, look who's dead! Look who I'm mourning! Look how I'm validating my existence today! I'm not immune to this, of course. I've done it myself. I know you meant well, but you got it wrong. Time for us to learn our lesson, boys and girls. Pay attention. There will be a test later.

Let's bring a bit of culture into this rant, by quoting another famous George. Shaw had the best insight into this whole life and death business, bar none. Life does not cease to be funny when people die any more than it ceases to be serious when people laugh.

You want to mourn George Carlin? Fine. Do it some other way. Find an ego that needs puncturing. Find something ridiculous, and ridicule the fuck out of it. Find something wrong, and expose it to the harsh light of truth. Carlin, like so many others before him, died leaving a Hell of a lot of work unfinished. If you want, you can stay silent for a minute, but if you want a better way to spend that time, look for ways to carry that work on.

Originally posted to slacknhash.net on June 24th, 2008.

Seven Ages of Man, abridged.

So, this site's undergone a major reorganisation, has it? You do know that's one of the tell-tale signs that any organisation or business is doomed, don't you? I'm expecting a mission statement to be written any time soon. There may even be rationalisation or streamlining. Well, that's the way the biscuit disintegrates, ain't it? The more Phil learns, the more he transforms into something he despises.

Some might say that's a tragedy. A profound and searing satire on the human condition; as we grow old we all turn into something that, in our youths, we hated.

Not me, however. I just think it's bloody hilarious.

So, gentle reader, take a good long look at yourselves. Allow yourselves an hour of introspection; consider what you are, what you like about yourselves and write it down. Put it in a safe deposit box, bury it in a time capsule, whatever it takes: just make sure that a soul-searching record is preserved for a decade or so. Then, when that time's passed, look over your character once again, and compare and contrast it with the person you were.

And if by that time they've developed time machines, don't go back to your past unless you're armed. It's always the wasted opportunities we regret the most.

There was a point to this entry, but frankly I can't be arsed to remember what it was.

Originally posted to slacknhash.net on June 21st, 2008.

Interviews

Yes, after altogether too long of that box in the lower-left corner of the screen displaying a test message, I'm back. I know, I've done this before: I've declared my triumphant return then promptly vanished off the radar for another few months. But I'm here for you now, baby, I've changed, please take me back, please God take me back. Don't make me cry. You don't want to see me cry.

Still, for my latest brief but glorious return to the Intertubes, I figured I'd be better off for venting my spleen on a subject that's been bugging me for ages now. Those of you who enjoy writing, who are trying to harness the power of the Interweb 2.0 for the purposes of cramming your words into the eyes of people who previously wouldn't feel inclined to give half a shit for your work, those who are trying to make your way in an increasingly hostile literary world: this one's for you. Read on.

I hate interviews with writers. Everywhere I look now, there's an up-and-coming writer being interviewed. New book on the way? New website? Ooh, better get an interview with some other site that's low on the pecking order. They've got to fill their whatever-it-is-they-have-instead-of-pages now, haven't they? Every single HTML document on the web is now a mere six frigging clicks away from someone determined to share their thoughts about literature today, dropping names like some great butterfingers. Where do you get your ideas from? Who's your influence? Where are you answering these questions? What the Hell are you about?

I have some horrible news, boys and girls: no-one really gives a shit. Not the reader, not the interviewer, and — deep down you know this, guys — you. It's not because of you, really; you're (usually) regular people, nothing wrong with that. It's because of the interview. What the Hell is the point? That's what I'd like to know. You've got a website, a blog, a mySpace, a facebook, a twitter, and a metric crapton of other minor things that all amount to a pretty comprehensive web presence. And what do you do with all this? You blog. You write about your lives, often in exhaustive detail, so when interview time finally rolls around, we're all bored shitless with you before you put fingers to keyboard. You've told us all there is to know, and the novelty of having some other bugger ask you about specific bits and pieces soon wears off.

Now, you are, I'd hope, intelligent people. This can't have escaped your notice, can it? Next time, try and do something original. Make sure your next interviews are complete fabrications from start to finish. Total and utter lies. Or do something other than just talk about yourselves! Act like the raconteurs and raconteuses you're supposed to be, and take the reader, the interviewer and yourselves somewhere interesting for a change.

Don't make me say 'please', folks. I'd never live it down.

Originally posted to slacknhash.net on June 5, 2008.

Open Letter to Nickolaus Pacione

Dear Princess,

You've got yourself in a lather again, haven't you? Recent videos have seen you metamorphose from Horror's Self-Proclaimed Bad Boy into the bastard offspring of Joe Pesci and Beaker from the Muppets. The only reason I bring this up is because your health really looks like it's taken a downturn: you spew and froth about 'yellow journalists', but your waxy skin, illuminated only by the orange glare from your desk lamp makes you look like you blew all your benefits money on cheap self-tan again. Your diction's gone to pot too: your latest slurred rants are so incoherent that I'm forced to wonder if you've been forced to sniff the cheaper generic brand of Superglue. You've gained weight, I could carry a week's shopping in the bags under your eyes and your posture's so bad you seem to be permanently tilted over at a 45° angle. For the good of your health, Princess, give it a rest before your lifestyle catches up with you!

With sales so low that you're even trying to sell your jeans on the Internet, I've just got to ask you this question, Princess Pixie: who do you have left to blame? Over the past decade, you've blamed all your ills on your ex-roommates, your ex-girlfriend, other writers, liberals, communists, nazis, liberal communist feminazis, homosexuals, pirates, e-pirates, f-pirates, some guy who was looking at you funny, some guy one of your few remaining mates made up. Pixie-Wixie Princess, your retreat from fame and fortune has been outstripped only by your retreat from reality.

During that time you've issued dozens of PayPal demands for increasing amounts: $100, $400, $1,000, $4,000. What's the matter, Pixie-Wixie Princess Peaches? Are you really that hard up? Worried that the benefits payments could dry up any day now? But, you know something, Pixie-Wixie Princess Peachy-poo, I'm prepared to help you. I'm prepared to buy something from you. Something that, later on, you can't claim was e-pirated. The income will be yours, yours alone, some lovely lovely money all of your very own! So how about it?

I'd like to buy your jeans. They've been up for sale for more than two months now, and they're still not taken. I imagine they're smelling a bit musty by now, even if you washed them before you stuck a price tag on them. I don't suppose you could knock a couple of bucks off for that? And they've shrunk. That's got to be another dollar off there, surely. The colour's faded a bit too, that's got to be worth another reduction…

Originally posted to slacknhash.net on February 22, 2008.

Beep beep beep beep beep

Hurrah for the gallant NYPD, guardians of the state and liberty.

I think you know where this is going, don't you?

If there's one thing people need, it's more regulation. It's for their own good. After all, in this post-9/11 climate, the last thing we need is more worry. After all, that might cause panic. And how do you stop people from worrying? Keep 'em dumb, that's how!

And what is it that's the latest potential cause of panic? What is it that threatens to get the locals so steamed up that their panic could paralyse the city with undue stress, worry, turmoil and anxiety?

Geiger counters.

I'm afraid so. Do you have any instruments that could detect the presence of radioactive, biological or chemical agents? Gotta have a permit. After all, you might get a false alarm, so unless the cops know where it is and know you're allowed to have one chances are you're going to cause widespread panic and the terrists win. This measure, they claim, is to ensure the devices are properly set up and that they conform to standards of quality and reliability.

For once, though, I'm going to stop this snark halfway through. Why? Because an article that consists solely of sarcasm is predictable, boring, and lazy. Even by my standards, and I can't even be arsed to get out of bed most days. I actually think the idea of this law is a good thing and I hope it gets voted through. Oh, some might say that if you want to ensure that the devices are properly calibrated and are suitably fit for purpose, then the first responsibility belongs to the manufacturers rather than the owners, but to such people I say this: who cares?

Regulate them out the ass. Make sure that every time someone wants one of these potentially panic-inducing devices, someone has to fill in an inch-thick wad of forms. More importantly, make sure that someone reads it.

In fact, since it's our civic duty (well, your civic duty; I don't live over there!) to keep ourselves (well, yourselves) informed and act responsibly, everyone should try to get hold of some of these devices: pollution detectors, Geiger counters, the lot. Apply for permits for everything. If the cops want control of all this equipment and want to regulate everything, let them. Give 'em so much paperwork that they'll damn well choke on it. And in fact, why not extend the brief? Fires cause panic! London burned down once, after all. Don't want people to be unduly worried by a few false positives on that front, so make sure that everyone who wants a smoke detector has to go through this.

Do it. Do it now. Even if they're just informal requests for information or permission. Sometimes, if you want a bad law to be prevented, you have to obey it with extreme prejudice.

Originally posted to slacknhash.net on January 28, 2008.

Reaching out to the fans.

Hang on. I've forgotten who I was supposed to be mocking in this blog. The writers or the fans? Oh, what the Hell. There's room enough for everybody. Spread a little happiness, that's my motto. Still, let's try to bridge this divide. At heart, every fan is a frustrated writer, after all. Why? Because art's difficult and technical stuff is boring. Writing on the other hand is easy: just look at all the fanfiction out there!

1. If you want to get ahead as a writer, you need to contact writers. Don't bother with submissions editors: magazines fold all the time! Writers stay around for ages. They know if a story works or not: it's their job. Google around and send them manuscripts. Make sure yours stand out from the others: different coloured text, strange fonts: all of these can help mark you out as an individual.
2. Writers are always in need of ideas. Send them some. They'll be glad of the help, and they'll give you a writing credit too! Remember, completed manuscripts are easy: it's ideas that are hard. Most don't have them. If you do, you've got it made!
3. Writers are naturally sociable creatures. Offer to collaborate with them. If you supply the idea and they do the donkey work, you could split the money with them 50/50!
4. The market isn't big enough to accomodate many new universes. Make sure the first five manuscripts you send out used established fictional worlds: Star Trek is a good idea. So is Star Wars. That's very big right now. Right now I can think of no novels published that cross the Star Wars and Star Trek universes. You could be the first person to write that!
5. Of course, some writers don't like those big franchises. So try personalising your offer by substituting their characters for Luke Skywalker, Captain Picard and what have you. Granted, the fit won't be perfect, but it's the idea that counts. As a rough guide, 'impulse power' means 'lots of horses' and 'warp 9' means 'lots and lots of horses'.
6. People respond better to novels that engage them on a personal level. You're a great guy, so make sure you're in the story somehow. This is a sort of in-joke, like Alfred Hitchcock's cameos in his films. If you adopt that too, the readers will go for that in a big way.
7. Your material is new and different. Make sure they know how. List other authors by name and show how yours is more original.
8. Writers are notoriously competitive and harbour grudges against their rivals. Show you're on their side by bad-mouthing a few when you drop your manuscript in their lap.
9. Remember that some people are naturally forgetful. If they haven't replied to your email at length, be sure to remind them. Play it cool, though: if you do it more than twenty times a day they'll start thinking they're dealing with some sort of nutter.
10. J.R.R. Tolkien didn't start writing The Lord of the Rings until he was 45. It wasn't published until he was 62. You're younger than that and you've just started on your magnum opus. I think that says something. Make sure they know that!
11. All writers feel a certain degree of fellowship because of their trade. Be sure to use the term 'fellow writer'.

So, fandom, now you know all you need to know about getting that multi-part fantasy / sci-fi epic out there. Your idols will know you're one of them at heart. Now get out there and prove it!

Originally posted to slacknhash.net on January 14, 2008.

Mike Read's Got Beautiful Breath

Just a quick post today. I thought I'd sing the praises of fandom, because not enough people do. They're an underappreciated bunch, all told, and the most fascinating sociopolitical group. Where else will you find a group that's very quick to point out its own intelligence and academic aptitude, and yet is still dumb enough to spout movie, video game and TV series catchphrases and drop Cube-knows-how much money on tie-in crap?

Hooray for fans! If it wasn't for fans, you science fiction writers wouldn't be where you are today.

No, stop laughing. You wouldn't be where you are today without them. Think about that, and all that that implies. Every pasty-faced tit who insists on cornering you at conventions and telling you at length about their fanfiction? That seventeen-stone packet of instant ennui (just add water! …and soap, preferably) is the core audience for your merchandise. That person has probably had a swift one off the wrist while wearing a t-shirt with the label of the franchise on it. While reading 'erotic' fanfiction based on your stories.

It'd be nice if the reward somehow matched up to that knowledge, wouldn't it? If the odour of cat piss actually guaranteed you'd earn out and get some income from those books besides the advance on royalties.

And if you producers of material for fandom consumption are feeling a bit depressed, just let me weigh in with the following point: I wish I had some fans too. Just a couple. Just so I could look at them and feel superior. That'd be great. Someone who'd lap up all this bullshit and see me for the genius I am. Any takers?

Originally posted to slacknhash.net on January 13, 2008.

Broom Handle / Your Arse '08

This is a column with one purpose: to aggrandise myself at the expense of anyone with the misfortune to be in my sights at the moment. I do not need to be knowledgeable. I just have to riff as mercilessly as I can and some of you are bound to lap it up. It's part of the deal. I'm a bastard and you like it.

This job's easy. Too easy. You see, every other bugger does it and the famous are queuing up around the block to provide the next train wreck du jour There's just no challenge anymore! I've hardly done a dozen columns and already I'm bored.

The thing is, I'm told the key to good blogging, or at least one of the keys is timeliness. Do you see the problem I face here, boys and girls? I'd promised myself I wouldn't devote two columns in a row to the presidential candidates, but it looks like I've got no choice. That's all pretty much every social networking site is talking about. That and Britney Spears, and frankly it's no contest, is it?

Let's try doing things a little differently, though. Let's turn our eyes away from the presidential hopefuls and look at you, the people they're trying to court. After all, what's a whore without her johns? Now, I've noticed something you all have in common: first, you all have an opinion, and a really strong one at that. America's been through Hell these past eight years, so naturally that's understandable. Second, each of you has his or hopes pinned on one candidate, with the expectation that they'll lead America and by extension the world out of its current morass, whether they see that morass as war, corruption, financial crisis, evolution or gay marriage. Pick an issue, any issue, and it's threatening to destroy America and only one candidate can provide salvation. Even people who I'd otherwise consider quite intelligent are doing this.

I have to ask one question, folks: why? We've all seen it happen again and again, and each time it backfires. You pin all your hopes on one guy or girl, hoping for change, only for them to backfire or turn out to be very much part of the establishment that's troubling you. And then four years roll around, and you do it all again. Have you learned nothing? No wonder Bush got in for a second term. He didn't need to fiddle the ballots. All he needed was a divided populace and ineffectual opposition, each member of which on the lookout for their own personal Moses, expecting him to provide a cure. That was easy enough. He got in the last two times, simply, because you are all idiots. That's all.

Sorry, is that too harsh for you? Were you expecting me to pick on Bush and the Republicans? Well, yes. It'd be easy to. And God knows I still will, because they're as bad as it gets, but they don't get all the blame. Oh, no. Not by a long chalk. You see, there are two parties. The vote was split roughly in half. That means half of you elected him to power, and the other half let him stay there and do what he wanted with impunity.

"But wait!" I hear you say. "Half of you didn't vote for him, and made sure the Democrats took both houses! That should settle him, shouldn't it? It could have been worse. And anyway, he's out this time, and Clinton or Obama could get in! It'll be different soon!"

Fuck you. It's no different now, and it probably won't change regardless of whoever gets in. I'll tell you why. It's not voter apathy, although that's part of it. It's because you're lazy. You expect a president will grant or preserve your freedoms. You reckon your political responsibilities begin and end at the ballot boxes, and a load of you can't even be bothered to go that far. You ended up with Bush and the current load of politicians because they were all you deserved.

Of course, I hardly do anything on this front either, so I'm part of the problem too. Fuck you, fuck me, fuck the whole fucking lot of us… aah, I'm too sober for this shit. I'll try to take the piss out of something funnier next time, okay?

Originally posted to slacknhash.net on January 7, 2008.

Iowaaaargh

It's shocking, it really is. I've been online for years, and what's the best I get? Occasional blogging on an RPG site. Here I am, intelligent, charming, devilishly sexy (women go for cloven hooves, you know) and yet the only people with whom I can share my wit and wisdom are a bunch of losers for whom the highlight of the month is rolling a natural 20 on an inked icosahedron: an event which by frigging definition occurs 5% of the time! I'm wasted on you, I really am. In a doomed attempt to broaden the appeal of this snot-smeared piss-drizzled rag of a website, it's time to put on my political hat.

So without further ado I cast my rheumy eye (it's a recognised medical condition) over the Iowa caucus. The first big fight to start weeding out candidates that are somehow unsuited to the presidency. It's all terribly inefficient. I could accomplish that in seconds: just invite them all into an enclosed space to debate and toss in a pipe bomb. A simple process of elimination. But, apparently, the law frowns on practices like that, so the country is forced to stoop to politics. Iowa is an agricultural state, stereotypically full of middle-aged white conservative God-botherers. The backbone of the Midwest. You know. The average sort of schmuck to whom few politicians would want to give the time of day, except when it's time for the caucus. Then it's time to do a bit of glad-handing with the nation's most mediocre and connect: the idea is if you can connect with these people, who pride themselves on their unassuming common sense (ha!) then you can connect with anyone. If you can win in Iowa and New Hampshire, you have the common touch and have a fighting chance anywhere. That's the theory, anyway. At Iowa, all pretensions are checked at the door. And a whole raft of new pretensions must be picked up quicker than you can say "Vote for me and I'll give you a blow-job."

Who's who in this race is not as important as who's pretending to be who. Candidates are going to try to latch onto as many groups as possible in an attempt to court their votes. The sad truth is that the public don't actually want change. They want a candidate to agree with them. That works out nicely because the candidates are prepared to agree with absolutely anyone in order to get their votes. Do you think that human beings were created as they are now, 6,000 years ago? Great! No problem! Just so long as enough of you vote and contribute to the campaign, there'll be half a dozen politicians fighting with each other to disbelieve any bit of science you care to name. Germ theory, plate tectonics — who needs them?

Whoever you vote for, politicians will get in. One chunk of the populace will be rewarded for their votes, another will be punished, and chances are you're all in for a vigorous ass-fucking and thanks to the price of crude oil hitting $100 a barrel, Vaseline is going to be expensive. You might look into water- or silicon-based lubricants. Start looking now.

Originally posted to slacknhash.net on January 3, 2008.

Oh, they're back, are they?

Oh, look. They're alive again. Honestly, people today: no staying power, that's their problem. All it takes is one little crisis like the imminent release of a new edition of D&D and everyone goes to pieces. "What'll we do, Bluey?" they ask. "In a few short months most of the gaming material on this site will be obsolete!" Well, okay: actually, they didn't ask that. They should have done, though; I've got more creativity in one talon than they have in every single frigging brain cell. I'm a creative genius, me.

Didn't stop them from trying, did it? They've got a new RPG on the go. Some sort of Dark Ages bollocks or somesuch. I don't care. Actually, I'm still sulking about them not putting me in charge. I've got a game idea ready and waiting, but I'm undervalued here. I'm wasted, I really am.

Cast your mind back to the 50s and 60s. Gangland London. That's the next great setting for roleplay. Ronnie and Reggie. Mad Frankie Fraser. Ultra-violence, corruption, and exaggerated Laaaahndon accents. Sound good yet? Thought it would. As soon as I can talk Phil and Tabi out of their current project, expect to see They Woz Good To Their Muvver in the shops! I've already got a list of chapters sorted, not that anyone cares:

1. Fink you're a bit tasty, do yer? A guide to creating your own cockney gangster.
2. Oi! Leave it! A character's first tentative steps in the world of violent crime.
3. Get the toys aht! Equipment listings: ever wondered how much damage you can do to someone by ripping his toes off with a set of bolt cutters?
4. Look aht! 'E's got a shootah! The ubiquitous combat system. Do you shoot the police? Or do you shoot yourself? No bastard coppa's gunnu take me alive!
5. You set me ap, you slaaaaag! You stitched me ap like a kippah! A chapter about betrayal, getting nicked and doing stir.
6. Porridge. How to survive inside when your character's doing twenty years for murder.
7. Gentlemen, they woz. An' they only evah killed their own sort! Coping with the realisation that your horrible crimes are now viewed with a kind of wistful nostalgia, and as vicious a bastard as you were back then, people now view you as a lovable rogue.
8. Bit of a rascal, I woz, but I know better now. Book deals, television appearances: you see? Crime does pay after all.

Sooner or later people are going to get fed up with this sword-and-sorcery shite. Think how much better The Hobbit would have been if Gandalf fucked the Great Goblin up with a pair of pliers instead of just stabbing him with Glamdring! "You might fink you're pretty tasty, but I'm tellin' yer right now you're nuffink. Great Goblin? Shit Goblin, more like!"

Deep down, you know I'm right.

Originally posted to slacknhash.net on January 1, 2008.