The Gospel According to John

DIY Literary Success

So as you some of you guys know, I write stuff sometimes. And one of the things I sometimes write is this novel I've been picking at for like, six years and for which there is still no finish date in sight (oh yeah, that whole December 31, 2008 thing? SO not happening anymore. Thanks though).

Writing is an arduous task made worse by the fact that once you finish the damn thing you have to try to find an agent that gives enough of a flying fistfuck about your 500-page diatribe about the triumph of the human spirit vis-a-vis coming of age in contemporary America or what-the-fuck-ever you're farting on about to actually read it and then feel confident enough in your talents to sign you and then have enough balls to pound on the doors of publishing houses and convince them that you are, in fact, the next David Foster Wallace (may he rest in peace) and that they should, in fact, give you a check for a sizable sum of money up front before even knowing if anyone will even buy the book, which they won't, because nobody buys books anymore except nerds, academics, and romance-novel enthusiasts.

So, yeah. Arduous.

But it needn't be any longer. Nowadays, you can skip all that and self-publish, like the crafty author of this masterpiece, who decided to take matters into her own hands--bless the Baby Gee for it:

There's really no need to say anything, is there?

Yes there is: there needs to be a drinking game where you read this book cover-to-cover and take a shot every time LaTawnya et. al. use the phrase "smoking drugs and drinking," I had no idea that horse farms had become such hopeless, crime-ridden cesspools, and that I am inspired anew to finish my novel.

Oh, also? Here's the author's bio:

"Thank you, God" indeed.

Source and Source

Exclusive! WWF Speaks!

Today, The Gospel According to John received the following email:

“Dear Sir:

I have come to feel that you, Mr. Craptist, are the only one I can trust.

I have held my tongue too long, and I feel the need to speak out. Earlier this week, a most unfortunate photograph of my mistress and me was distributed around the world, accompanied by surly commentary of a snide nature. This is the last straw.

I can no longer hold my peace. Or, for that matter, any facial expressions of any kind.

I would be very appreciative if you would lend the listening ears of both you and your readers, so that I may separate the facts from the lies.

Respectfully,

Wonky Wonky Facelift”

I am nothing if not evenhanded. Herewith, WWF’s statement, submitted exclusively to The Gospel According to John:

Alright look:

 

Yes, we look like shit here, okay? Fine.

But you all don’t understand. You have no idea what I’ve been through the past few weeks. For starters, about 37 hours a day of dancing in preparation for this tour she’s making me go on.

And YES, I know there aren’t actually 37 hours in a day, blah blah blah. But you don’t know this woman like I do. She FORCES 37 hours into a day. Do you want a tidbit of insider information? 

EVERY ONE OF HER DANCERS HAS DIED DUE TO EXHAUSTION.

ALL OF THEM.

They’ve had to be replaced because she makes them dance the same number over and over again for five days straight.

They made it through the first two weeks of rehearsals, and then they dropped like fucking flies! It was like the Jonestown Massacre!

We’re currently on our 8th round of dancers. She whips them too. Serious. One of them, a really nice guy with great abs named Nate—poor thing, rest his soul—he spoke up for what I would call his God-given human rights and demanded that Mistress allow him to eat lunch after she had made everyone perform La Isla Bonita 83 times in a row, full-out, and do you know what she did?

Did she send him home? Take him out of the number? Fire him?

Oh no. No, Mistress runs a much tighter ship than that. She asked him to bring his mother to rehearsal the next day because she was DYING to meet her. Then she flashed that winning smile at poor Nate, and he was once again enchanted into forgiveness, as usual.

So next day, he brings his mother in. Mistress shakes her hand, says “Oh, what a talented son you have!” Nate’s mother is over the moon. The rest of the dancers and band arrive, and Mistress gathers everyone around for a pep talk.

“Everyone, this is Nate’s mother,” she said. “She’s going to be joining us for rehearsal today. Everyone welcome her to the team.”

AND THEN SHE FUCKING ATE HER.

No, I’m not kidding.

See, you people look at me, and you laugh, and you guffaw, and you email my picture all over the place and titter and hoot.

But you have no idea how fucking batshit crazy this bitch is. You don’t know what I’m put through. YOU DON’T KNOW MY LIFE.

Do you know that at night, when she goes to sleep, she hooks me up to a system of weights and pullies to keep me tugged as taut as possible? It’s like being in a Medieval torture chamber!

And do you know what it’s like to have Guy Ritchie’s miniature come at you on a nightly basis?! DO YOU?! It’s HORRIFIC!! I shall never heal from this!

Mini-Guy, who, despite his owner being a faux-Cockney Neanderthal, is really quite a nice little fellow—and I mean LITTLE—he and I talk every night, and it’s always the same conversation:

Mini-Guy: “Look, I’m really sorry about this!”

Wonky Wonky Facelift: “I know! I know! Just get it over with!”

Mini-Guy: “Seriously, I don’t like this anymore than you do!”

Wonky Wonky Facelift: “I know! I know! Just down the hatch with you so he falls asleep!”

Mini-Guy: “Oh God! Here we go! PLEASE try to keep her from using her teeth! PLEASE! He gets so MAD!”

Wonky Wonky Facelift: “I know I’m sorry! I’ll try, Mini-Guy, I’ll shmmffffttggllfffshshslgggllshshhhhhffft OH MY FUCKING GOOOOOODSHSLFFFFTTLLggggttthffft!”

Mini-Guy: “I’m sorry!”

Wonky Wonky Facelift: “Jesus! You taste like Guinness and rotten pork shsmfmfmffffffffttglllgggffftt!”

Mini-Guy: “Oh God she’s biting again! MAKE HER STOP!”

Wonky Wonky Facelift: “PLEASE GOD KILL M-SSDHFFFFTTGGGLGLFFFTTTTT”

That’s verbatim.

But as if that wasn’t bad enough, the last few weeks I’ve had to not only contend with Guy Ritchie’s uncircumcised better 1/48th, but—my God, I can hardly utter the words the experience has been so unspeakable—that greasy, steroid-addicted, ape-looking Dominican bohunk baseball star’s swarthy “bat.”

YOU PEOPLE HAVE NO FUCKING IDEA WHAT I’VE BEEN THROUGH!!! That fucking thing says things to me in Spanish that are UNSPEAKABLE! 

Do you know that she scrubs me with a wire brush? She thinks it will scrape my older particles away and make room for the newer ones!

Do you know that sometimes, in the middle of the night, she rubs me against Lourdes’s cheeks and chants, over and over again, in a whisper, “Youuuuth, youuuth, youuuth” because she believes Lourdes’s supple 12-year-old skin cells will transfer to her face and make her appear younger? And then Lourdes wakes up and begins to cry, and says, usually in French, “Mom why? WHY?! I WANT TO LIVE WITH MY ALL-LOOKS-AND-NO-BRAINS DADDY!!!” and then Mistress storms out and begins breaking things in a rage? (And do you know that the joke’s on her because all the rubbing against Lourdes’s face has accomplished nothing except to transfer her unibrow to her mother. Tee hee! Don’t tell!)

And do you know that she sets fire to me? She thinks it will melt me into a smoother consistency! She says, “It’s plastic! It’ll melt! No one will ever know I’m 50, no one will ever know I’m 50, NO ONE WILL EVER KNOW I’M FIFTYYYYYY!” and then she burns me with a blowtorch!!!

And this one time, her assistant said “Madonna, that’s not what plastic surgery means! MADONNA PUT DOWN THE BLOW TORCH!!” And Mistress got so mad she flung her assistant over her shoulder—those arms of hers seriously are NOT a joke—and dragged her out to the back of the manse where she rides her horses, and MADE HER INTO A BONFIRE! And then she danced around her in circles singing “Ray of Light,” and every time she’d come to the line “She’s got herself a universe” she’d emit an UNEARTHLY cackle and shriek “NOT ANYMORE YOU DON’T BITCH!!!”

YOU PEOPLE HAVE NO IDEA!!!!! I am assailed night and day!

And then—AND THEN—as if this weren’t bad enough, we have this son of a bitch:

Miss Christina Crawford-Ciccone!

Who has the unmitigated GALL to write a salacious tell-all book called Sissy Dearest—

no, sorry, that was the working title; the trade title came out different—about his sister who is, no doubt—take it from one who knows—even more evil than he says, but whose evil Christina has nonetheless been living off of for some 25 years!

And then he goes on Good Morning America, and do you know what he does?

DO YOU?

He blames ME for the rift between him and his sister!!!

ME!!!!

Here’s proof:

:

I mean, I have never suffered such abuse at the hands of a man who has NEVER EVEN MET ME in all my life!

So I understand, okay? I get it. I look like shit.

But lemme make one small request: I’d like to see all of you vicious faggots and entitled cubicle rats attached to weights and pullies, scraped with wire brushes, scorched with blowtorches, forced to accept an encrusted cretin like Mini-Guy Ritchie, obliged to ingest Aaron Rodriguez’s foul-mouthed baseball “equipment,” and be made a laughing-stock of on national television, AND THEN SEE HOW FUCKING CUTE YOU MOTHER FUCKERS ALL LOOK.

So in short: Leave me the fuck alone! YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT I’M GOING THROUGH!

Warmest regards,

Wonky Wonky Facelift

Editor’s note: WWF was notified that nobody will be ceasing to ridicule her any time soon, and responded with a forlorn “I know.”

So, business as usual.

You're Going to Be Gay

is the name of a new book by Shann Carr, lesbian, stand up comedian, and denizen of Palm Springs, one of California's gayest--and I mean gayest--locales, popular with homosexual gays the world over.

The book is a collection of childhood photos of homosexual gays that seem to indicate that they were always destined to be homosexual gays.

"It's that one photo that gay adults now look to and nod - yep," quoth Carr.

Photos like these, actual selections from said book:

Oh yeah.

Oh dear God yes.

This is the gayest photograph of a child ever.

""Even if the person wasn't being honest with themselves, the objective observer knew all along," Carr goes on.

I know that's right! My mother's house is chock full of these sorts of photos. Like ones of me wearing my mother's black leather platform boots at the age of 4 (they were nearly as tall as me). Or the one from my 6th birthday party, where I'm trying to keep my guests from touching my Cookie Monster birthday cake so that they wouldn't ruin the perfectly rendered blue fur made of blue frosting and blue-dyed coconut shavings. Or my yearly studio picture at the age of 5, with my hands folded neatly in my lap, my head cocked just so, beaming from beneath my brilliantly blond bowl cut like fuc*ing Mary Lou Retton.

Yikes.

Source via Towleroad

Those damn volcano aliens are up to no good again...

There are some amazing things going on in Hollywood lately!

Apparently, unauthorized Princess Diana and Madonna biographer Andrew Morton's latest outing (pun intended) focuses on Tom Cruise and how totally and completely batshi* he is. Apparently, there are some rather intriguing assertions in the book, according to London's Daily Mail. My personal favorite is the one about Suri Cruise being a Scientology 'Rosemary's baby!!!' AWESOME.

Personally, while some of the allegations in Morton's book might sound a bit beyond the pale, I don't feel an ounce of skepticism. I mean, we're talking about a religion based on a sci-fi novel, the crux of which is the concept that evil aliens came to populate the earth, died inside a volcano, which then erupted, unleashing their evil spirits upon the planet, which then attached themselves to humans, causing wrongdoing and self-doubt, as well as other "afflicitions" like addiction and homosexuality (hmmm, that last one is awfully interesting given certain rumors about certain Scientologists *cough Tom Cruise John Travolta cough*).

My years in LA afforded me many first-hand accounts of Scientology. I used to work with a kid we'll call Sam who had just moved to LA and was having trouble finding a job. He saw an ad in the paper for a janitor at the Church of Scientology HQ off of Hollywood Blvd. Desperate for work, he applied, and they hired him. So they call him to have him come fill out paperwork, get his uniform and "choose a dorm and roommate."
    "I think you've made a mistake. I have an apartment and a roommate, I just need a job," Sam says.
    "Uh huh," Scientology lady says, "anyway, we'll need you to come down and pick out a dorm and a roommate."
    "Maybe you didn't hear me," Sam says. "I already have a place to live. I have a lease with my name on it, and a roommate. I just need a job."
    "Well sir," Scientology lady says, "we're confident that once you see our facilities and meet other members of our team, you'll really want to be a part of the community we have here."
    "Ma'am," Sam says, "you're missing the point: I already have a lease I am legally bound to."
    "Well, the position you've been hired for is contingent upon you being a residential team member."
    "Then I don't want the job!" Sam said.
    Ominous silence.
    "Are you sure about that, sir?"
    "Uh, yeah," Sam says.
    Ominous silence.
    "Really?"
    "Yes! I have an apartment!"
    "I would strongly suggest, for your own best interests, that you reconsider."

Sam hung up on the woman, but he was so barraged by phone calls from the Church of Scientology--some friendly and coaxing, some downright menacing--that he had to change his phone number and get a P.O. Box. Yikes.

Also, if you're an LA actor, there are always lots of really helpful seminars to help you in your career listed in the trade mags. Seminars with topics like "How to Overcome Self-Doubt" and "How To Land a Commercial Agent" and "How to Nail that Pilot Audition." All of them feature a celebrity guest--in my day it was always Jenna Elfman (*vomits* sorry, pardon me)--cost an affordable $15, and include...

*cue horror movie soundtrack*

A COPY OF L. RON HUBBARD'S 'DIANETICS.'

Yowza. Seriously that stuff is NUTS. Read about it here ...if you dare...