Hack "Writer" Claims Binchy Would Have Been Better if She Was a Moo

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kidlesskim
How'd I do?

lariouslarious:yr

You owe me a brand new HP keyboard.

You must have sluiced in another dimension. Your vagina exploded with loafetta, you stared at the abyss, and the abyss stared right back at your leaky tits. Bravo!

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kidlesskim


How'd I do?

I threw up in to my mouth a little while I was reading it, so I say, pretty good. LMAO!!

OMG Kim - you wrote that? LOL I thought it was from Cow's actual book.

BWAHAHA!

:beer

How'd I do?

That was simply brilliant Kim. I now down to your awesomeness.

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Zzelda
OMG Kim - you wrote that? LOL I thought it was from Cow's actual book.

BWAHAHA!

:beer

No, it was ALL my own "work" and it took me all of five minutes to concoct it too.

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If YOU are the "exception" to what I am saying, then why does my commentary bother you so much?
I don't hate your kids, I HATE YOU!

You've got the framework. With some polishing, it'll be indistinguishable from something out of moo book club larious

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" ... what's one more once you've already got two shedding on the couch?"

Q: what other female writer never had any children?

A: louisa may alcott, author of the classic family book "little women."

this amanda bitch can suck my ass.

Ahahahahaha! Kim, that was hilarious! It sounded so real.

Brilliant as always KK

dorisan, "the awakening" is one of my favorite novels.

honestly, if i had to have a brood of kiddies and be a housewife i would swim out to sea and drown myself, too.

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chevygirl54
I love Ann Rule. She writes gritty and absorbing true crime novels and I eat them up like candy. Excellent writer and one of my favorites.

I think Amanda Craig needs a big glass of shut the fuck up juice.

wink

And not to keep going on about AR, but I think this is relevant and a book others may like -

She wrote a book about Ted Bundy and she actually knew him.

For this book - she did have to write about more personal things, and it seems slightly different in 'style', in comparison to her other books.

It is also an excellent book. That she was able to do that, 'shift' the writing style somewhat, and still turn out an excellent book (one of her best, IMO) - that really says something.

Here's the book -

http://www.amazon.com/The-Stranger-Beside-Me-Revised/dp/0451164938

I read that one - chilling.

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kidlesskim

My exposed breasts, so engorged with life giving nectar from God, tingled in pain.

How'd I do?

larious larious larious larious larious larious larious larious larious

If you were in my writing class, I would give you an A for the semester for that one line alone. Although I might ask you to replace the beer that I almost spewed all over my computer!

Brilliance! Let's see ... already forgot her name ... the moo breeder who wrote the article we're smashing to shreds ... do as well.

Wow, I had a bad day and that really helped. Thanks, Kim. 'For whom the Moo Lows'. That is golden.

I need to get on Amazon and check out Binchy. As for Craig, she can eat shit.

Kim, you are AWESOME!!! Had I not known you were CF, I would have been convinced your little snippet was from a placenta-brain's creepy, overly-melodramatic novel!

Writing a decent novel does not require sluicing bastards. It requires a good imagination and the ability to put it into words. I've read a few Mooo's offerings on the net, regarding their writing, and frankly....they leave much to be desired.

Writers write. Moos sluice bastards. What more can I say about it?

Let's put this in perspective, folks. There are currently two unfortunately successful breeders in the literary world. One wrote Twilight and the other plagiarized Twilight. Oh, yeah, everybody is really getting an understanding of the complex emotions and bonds that only breeders can understand. Fuck these whores.

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"Why children take so long to grow? They eat and drink like pig and give nothing back. Must find way to accelerate process..."
- Dr. Yi Suchong, Bioshock

"Society does not need more children; but it does need more loved children. Quite literally, we cannot afford unloved children - but we pay heavily for them every day. There should not be the slightest communal concern when a woman elects to destroy the life of her thousandth-of-an-ounce embryo. But all society should rise up in alarm when it hears that a baby that is not wanted is about to be born."
- Garrett Hardin

"I feel like there's a message involved here somehow, but then I couldn't stop laughing at all the plotholes, like the part when North Korea has food."
- Youtube commentor referring to a North Korean cartoon.

"Reality is a bitch when it slowly crawls out of your vagina and shits in your lap."
- Reddit comment

"Bitch wants a baby, so we're gonna fuck now. #bareback"
- Cambion

Oh whatever. Abortion doctors are crimestoppers."
- Miss Hannigan

I've decided to take a stab at literature - over the top in metaphors, but with fewer florid adjectives. Here I present an excerpt from my never-to-be-written novel,

The Language of Loss

As an orphan growing up with my mother's sister, her two children, and her tacturn husband, I thought I knew the language of loss. It was the lump in my throat that I struggled to speak past, so Aunt Sally wouldn't remind me that nobody loves a sulker. The words were written on my arm in the little blue bruises of Angela's jealous pinches. I tasted loss in the bile that came to my mouth at dinner, when Jimmy gleefully informed me we were eating Bluebelle, and Uncle Jake said, "She was just a cow, for crissakes!"

I learned loss before I spoke a word, as my mother sobbed over my cradle after my father's hunting accident. The stamp was engraved on my heart when my mother took ill when I was twelve, and I believed that the lingering aura was why Angela and Jimmy hated me. They were warding off misfortune, by casting out the child who carried bad luck with her like a cloak.

As I grew older, my vocabulary developed. How do you speak the loss of your first boyfriend to Angela's charms? It's the sound of tears muffled in a pillow, of a thousand sheets of paper covered with hearts and the names of our future children, violently ripped into shreds.

When I left Nebraska I thought I might leave my heartache behind as easily as the farm. I should have known. It isn't so easy to give up your native tongue.

John offered me promise, and escape. He couldn't see my taint. For a while we were happy, wallowing in the early days of our marriage. Then in one instant I was cast into darkness, as blood ran down my legs. I'd lay awake beside John, wretched in my guilt. How could I have failed to nurture his child? John never spoke of it, but I knew he blamed me, and it taught me how you can lose someone who is right beside you. It was punctuation to the sentence of grief my miscarriage had brought. It tasted like salty tears in a dry mouth, and I saw my loss every day in the shining hair of neighborhood children as they ran to bring their mothers flowers they'd collected from the ditches.

Life went on, and John and I reconciled. I prayed daily for God to please give me another chance to be a good mother. I promised I'd give anything, willingly.

I was eight months pregnant when I lost John.

The heart attack that killed him was over in moments, while I struggled for hours in the premature labor the shock caused. Our Danielle was so fragile, lying in the incubator covered with tubes, that I knew she had inherited my sorrow. The loss of John was the color of the fluorescent lights of the hospital, a blurry haze of days and nights as I whispered to Danielle, telling her in our language that she had to live. Her tiny blue veins were stark through her gossamer skin, as she struggled to breathe.

John hadn't left us with much. I worked hard. Nights were long at the bar where I worked while Danielle slept in the back room, and days spent cleaning the house and caring for a baby were even longer as I ached for rest. Danielle became a bubbling five-year-old who was as content to chase butterflies as to help me hang up the laundry. She seemed to have forgotten her early losses; it wasn't imprinted on her soul as it was mine. I saw loss in every pair of torn pants, and in the collapsing boards of the porch I couldn't afford to repair. WIC cheese coating my mouth, blue swirls of cigarette smoke swirling around my head as I drew another pint, and the soft settling of the house as I tried to nap: this was how loss spoke to me in those first five years.

It took only a moment for Danielle to slip into the ditch as she reached for a flower, only a moment for her lips to turn blue, only a moment for my world to shatter. The knock of the police on the door that woke me from my nap was the first sound of the disaster. If you asked me what the end of the world sounds like, I would say it's the knock on the door that drags you from dream to waking. To describe it, I'd draw a picture of her tiny fingers, still clutching a daisy.

I knew the full language of loss. Not a single word escaped me in that terrible instant, and I cursed God for the needles that pierced my heart. The loss of my faith in the Lord was the barest gesture of loss: the moment of silence before I said something completely unforgiveable to the pastor. It was nothing compared to the roar of Danielle's loss, which overwhelmed everything I thought I ever knew, everything I ever thought I had lost.

The loss was carved in the skin of my arms, where I had run my nails down it. It was in every casserole dish I smashed, every door I slammed. I had thought I knew the language of loss, but now I saw the truth before me: grief is an ocean, and until now I had only dabbled my toe. Most people - even those who think they are sinking - are merely sitting on the shore, feeling the cold waves lap over their feet.

I was desperately alone, sinking in the ocean of loss under the light of a blood-red setting sun.

...but at least God spared me the ultimate loss, the loss of seeing Danielle grow up, of becoming the irrelevant mother. She is forever my unblemished angel, dancing among the flowers of summer.

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paragon schnitzophonic
Let's put this in perspective, folks. There are currently two unfortunately successful breeders in the literary world. One wrote Twilight and the other plagiarized Twilight. Oh, yeah, everybody is really getting an understanding of the complex emotions and bonds that only breeders can understand. Fuck these whores.

God, every sow at my workplace is juicing themself over that linguistic fail of total fuckuppery, 50 Shades of Grey. I hate the bitch who wrote that even MORE than Stephanie Meyer, which is actually saying something. At least Meyer started OUT trying a fairly original take on typical romantic conventions. This other bitch just wrote a Twilight fanfiction and changed the fucking names.

Without disclosing too much personal information, I was actually a huuuuuuugely popular fanfiction writer several years ago in a fairly large and prevalent anime fandom. I had a falling-out because I was a selfish cunt and my ego got too big, but it really chaps my ass that I could have changed some names around in my most popular fanfiction story and possibly had a multi-million dollar book deal and massive legions of retarded fans without ever really writing anything meaningful at all. /rant

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yurble
...WIC cheese coating my mouth, blue swirls of cigarette smoke swirling around my head as I drew another pint, and the soft settling of the house as I tried to nap: this was how loss spoke to me in those first five years.

The WIC cheese, hahahahahahaha! Damn that WIC cheese! That was beautiful, Yurble!

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yurble
It took only a moment for Danielle to slip into the ditch as she reached for a flower, only a moment for her lips to turn blue, only a moment for my world to shatter.

The emergency services department of some city in north TX has come up with the catch phrase "2 seconds is too long" when leaving kids unattended near pool, lakes, etc. Surely "a moment" is much less than 2 seconds so Danielle's mother can hardly be blamed. larious

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yurble
I've decided to take a stab at literature - over the top in metaphors, but with fewer florid adjectives. Here I present an excerpt from my never-to-be-written novel,

The Language of Loss

As an orphan growing up with my mother's sister, her two children, and her tacturn husband, I thought I knew the language of loss. It was the lump in my throat that I struggled to speak past, so Aunt Sally wouldn't remind me that nobody loves a sulker. The words were written on my arm in the little blue bruises of Angela's jealous pinches. I tasted loss in the bile that came to my mouth at dinner, when Jimmy gleefully informed me we were eating Bluebelle, and Uncle Jake said, "She was just a cow, for crissakes!"

I learned loss before I spoke a word, as my mother sobbed over my cradle after my father's hunting accident. The stamp was engraved on my heart when my mother took ill when I was twelve, and I believed that the lingering aura was why Angela and Jimmy hated me. They were warding off misfortune, by casting out the child who carried bad luck with her like a cloak.

As I grew older, my vocabulary developed. How do you speak the loss of your first boyfriend to Angela's charms? It's the sound of tears muffled in a pillow, of a thousand sheets of paper covered with hearts and the names of our future children, violently ripped into shreds.

When I left Nebraska I thought I might leave my heartache behind as easily as the farm. I should have known. It isn't so easy to give up your native tongue.

John offered me promise, and escape. He couldn't see my taint. For a while we were happy, wallowing in the early days of our marriage. Then in one instant I was cast into darkness, as blood ran down my legs. I'd lay awake beside John, wretched in my guilt. How could I have failed to nurture his child? John never spoke of it, but I knew he blamed me, and it taught me how you can lose someone who is right beside you. It was punctuation to the sentence of grief my miscarriage had brought. It tasted like salty tears in a dry mouth, and I saw my loss every day in the shining hair of neighborhood children as they ran to bring their mothers flowers they'd collected from the ditches.

Life went on, and John and I reconciled. I prayed daily for God to please give me another chance to be a good mother. I promised I'd give anything, willingly.

I was eight months pregnant when I lost John.

The heart attack that killed him was over in moments, while I struggled for hours in the premature labor the shock caused. Our Danielle was so fragile, lying in the incubator covered with tubes, that I knew she had inherited my sorrow. The loss of John was the color of the fluorescent lights of the hospital, a blurry haze of days and nights as I whispered to Danielle, telling her in our language that she had to live. Her tiny blue veins were stark through her gossamer skin, as she struggled to breathe.

John hadn't left us with much. I worked hard. Nights were long at the bar where I worked while Danielle slept in the back room, and days spent cleaning the house and caring for a baby were even longer as I ached for rest. Danielle became a bubbling five-year-old who was as content to chase butterflies as to help me hang up the laundry. She seemed to have forgotten her early losses; it wasn't imprinted on her soul as it was mine. I saw loss in every pair of torn pants, and in the collapsing boards of the porch I couldn't afford to repair. WIC cheese coating my mouth, blue swirls of cigarette smoke swirling around my head as I drew another pint, and the soft settling of the house as I tried to nap: this was how loss spoke to me in those first five years.

It took only a moment for Danielle to slip into the ditch as she reached for a flower, only a moment for her lips to turn blue, only a moment for my world to shatter. The knock of the police on the door that woke me from my nap was the first sound of the disaster. If you asked me what the end of the world sounds like, I would say it's the knock on the door that drags you from dream to waking. To describe it, I'd draw a picture of her tiny fingers, still clutching a daisy.

I knew the full language of loss. Not a single word escaped me in that terrible instant, and I cursed God for the needles that pierced my heart. The loss of my faith in the Lord was the barest gesture of loss: the moment of silence before I said something completely unforgiveable to the pastor. It was nothing compared to the roar of Danielle's loss, which overwhelmed everything I thought I ever knew, everything I ever thought I had lost.

The loss was carved in the skin of my arms, where I had run my nails down it. It was in every casserole dish I smashed, every door I slammed. I had thought I knew the language of loss, but now I saw the truth before me: grief is an ocean, and until now I had only dabbled my toe. Most people - even those who think they are sinking - are merely sitting on the shore, feeling the cold waves lap over their feet.

I was desperately alone, sinking in the ocean of loss under the light of a blood-red setting sun.

larious

While I highlighted my favorite parts, I especially like how you conformed the "losses" and her situation to be nothing of her own fault or doing. Of course most of her current situation was all clearly directly or indirectly self imposed due to irresponsibility, bad choices, and poor planning, but then you made her WIC-Welfare barmaid status and addiction problems the fault and result of her tragic circumstances. This one here has Donation Cans, Candle Light Vigils, and Teddy Bears™ written all over it.

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If YOU are the "exception" to what I am saying, then why does my commentary bother you so much?
I don't hate your kids, I HATE YOU!

LOL @ "He couldn't see my taint." I know what you meant - he couldn't see your flaw - but I'm on a lowbrow humor kick today.

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michaela

"A child will make two dishes at an entertainment for friends, and when the family dines alone, the fore or hind quarter will make a reasonable dish, and seasoned with a little pepper or salt, will be very good boiled on the fourth day, especially in winter." -Jonathan Swift, A Modest Proposal

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michaela
LOL @ "He couldn't see my taint." I know what you meant - he couldn't see your flaw - but I'm on a lowbrow humor kick today.

Be glad I disregarded the first rule of writing and opted to tell rather than bloody show the action.

Yurble, it takes a damn good writer to write something that Lyttonesque!

I'm actually tempted to post a story (like mine or Kim's, but one written more as a blog post), as its own thread here, as if it were something we found on the net and were ripping into, to find out if trolls would discover it and call us heartless. Of course I'd mention somewhere in the thread that it was fiction, but the trolls wouldn't read that bit...

That would be fun.