Good night, sweet prince.

Rest in peace,
Alexander Malachi Archer.

(formerly Michael R. Holt)

He has gone to meet the Great Programmer(s) of this Simulation Universe, and sincerely hopes to be born next into a young man on an Iron Age earth, in a Northern territory, thousands of miles from any other people, preferably with a tool or two.

He always told me that he loved three things most on this Earth: his three children (Elisabeth, Abigail, and Michael), Comedy, and fighting.  Alas, he has given up the third.  His sleep apnea progressed in the time I knew him to where he was constantly fatigued, which caused him to gain weight and grow exceedingly depressed.  His near-constant migraines didn’t help, either.  Near the end, his back began becoming his enemy as well, as he’d often strain 2 or more muscles at a time merely with a forceful sneeze.

Still, even though his family forsook him (through ignorance or willfully), he found happiness here in the mountains.  He’d often tell me that this was his own slice of heaven.  And then with a tear always in his eye, he’d say it would only be perfect with his children here.  He loved them of necessity from afar, and had he not made me promise to say no more of his wicked family he left behind, I could catalog every manipulative and evil trespass his ex-wife, mother, and others had done to him.

He was a good man.  A comical man.  His sense of humor often took me by surprise, even in the roughest of times – of which he had many.  He’d reference things I hadn’t heard of, even as his cognitive functions and recall waned.  His near-encyclopedic knowledge of movies, TV, and Comedy itself was truly daunting, but always entertaining.  He had a way of telling a joke that, even if you didn’t know what he was talking about, would still compel you to laugh.

I’ll never be able to see his children, other than the many photos he’d show me that he had saved from times when his ex wasn’t blocking her Facebook.  But I know how much he loved them, missed them, and wished every advantage for them – advantages that, in his poor and broken state, he knew that he could no longer provide.  He’d tell me often of Elisabeth’s unbridled cheerfulness and innocence and how her sweet smile would light up a room.  He told me of his daughter Abigail, who he saw (for better or worse) as the most like him, the most adventurous, the most clever.  And he told me of his precious, charismatic son Michael, whom he hoped would one day throw off the name that was forced upon him and take up the mantle of the name that he had chosen, becoming Alexander Malachi Archer the Second (II).

No… he never got to see them again.  The money that his ex held over his head (all while she hypocritically claimed she didn’t need it) was enough to prevent him from even calling them… which, of course, was just what she wanted anyway.  (Sorry, Lex – I had to say it.)  Still, his children never left his heart or mind.  I even would see him hugging his puppy Dragon sometimes extra hard when he thought I wasn’t looking, and whispering, “I love you, kids!”  For a man that I never once saw in the presence of his children, he was the most loving Dad I’ve ever known except for my very own.

His wish was to hold out long enough until he could win the lottery or collect some windfall or even sell an excellent book so that he could build the castle he’d always dreamed of here in these very mountains… to have a home at last where his children could be proud to see him.  But the money never came, and his failing health prevented him from finishing any further written works – even though he would tell me of the most fantastical ideas that I could swear had never been written upon.  The wasting of his mind was, unbeknownst to them, a terrible blow to the only readers he ever cared to see his stories… his children.

He gave up the fight today, and only wished that I quote Horatio for his eulogy, such was the beautiful simplicity of this, my best friend of the past two years.  Because I knew him best, when he showed me this blog among his many internet bookmarks (He graciously made a gift of his computer to me.), I knew that he wouldn’t mind greatly if I took the time to say the goodbye that he didn’t.  He wanted to call his kids one last time… tell them how much he loved them, but in the end decided that it was better that they think him already dead, as his ex and mother no doubt led them to believe.  I’m sorry again, Lex my brother, but I just didn’t think that was good enough.  Someone that knows your children will see this (I know it!), and they will tell your children of your great love so that they may remember you fondly, apart from any vicious lies your former family may have told them.

After this post, I will delete this page from his bookmarks and never visit it again under his login, so there will be no comments posted.  His unmarked grave in the mountains here will be all that is left of him besides his wonderful children.

The rest is silence.

Advertisements
Posted in Pensive | Leave a comment

You always said “I love you”, but never bothered to say “I’m sorry”.

I’ve often said that you were just like my ex in that regard, mom.  It turned out that I was more than right, for even she never attempted such backhanded excuses (masquerading as apologies) as you…

“I’m sorry if you got your feelings hurt.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way.”

You can’t slap your son and then pretend it’s his fault for “making you do it”.  You can’t fake-excuse and guilt-trip your way out of all worldly culpability, mom.  It doesn’t work that way.  And it won’t work this time, either.  You’ve had ample opportunity during these last long weeks to honestly apologize for what you’ve done, and all you’ve managed were craven appeals to what you supposed was my greed, and a few emaciated “I love you”s.

You should be well aware that an “I love you” without a genuine show of charitable love to back it up is as worthless as a currency not backed by gold.  Doing what you think is best is not a show of charity to another person.  It’s a show of arrogant, Narcissistic megalomania, the like of which is only rivaled by straight legislators who piously think they know what should be allowed in the privacy of a gay couple’s bedroom.

If you don’t know what love is, then saying “I love you” is about as useful as hunting grizzly bears with a BB gun.  The point, mom, is that you should’ve said “I’m sorry”… and meant it.

You know what you did that day when you and your brother and that moronic country clod of a boyfriend of yours colluded to have an innocent man taken away in chains?  You robbed that innocent man of his freedom, putting me in a position where I’d have to barter my own American second amendment rights away in order to be set free!  Think about that, you three, if you can hear me from your lofty tower of judgment.

You paunchy suburbanites, who have never fought for your own freedoms, never served your country, never picked up arms for it, and never left your loved ones at home with the very real fear that you may never see them again… you conspired to take that same freedom from a United States veteran who actually did fight for them!

Think about that every time you freely leave your house, mom.

Think about that every time you pick up a hunting rifle, uncle.

Think about that every time you walk on American soil, fat bumpkin.

May the thought of you three’s despicable, cowardly act haunt you until the day you die, and may the world see you for the disgusting, unrepentant villains that you are.

Speaking of which, I should probably add in fact here what I only had license in your presence to hint at (so long as you begrudgingly supplied me with shelter)… having lived through the same power-grabbing and mental terrorism from my ex as dad had to live through with you, I know without question that it was you who drove him to the vile act that put him in prison.  Sure, you didn’t pull the trigger, but you did your damnedest to oil the gun, load it, hand it to him, and convince him to fire.

Now, I know dad is no saint.  As a father, you’re only ever slightly better than your dad was before you (given a more current education) once you’re able to learn from (vice emulate) his mistakes.  Only every so often does one go above-and-beyond to purify the fatherly waters (as I did), but I digress.  The point is, yeah – he had his faults.  No question.

But, like a crack in a sidewalk may be enlarged to a veritable crevasse over a lifetime of icy waters therein, so may the flaws in a granite man’s character be exploited by the unforgiving nature of a frigid harridan of a wife.

You see, readers, my dad was a goofy looking kid – not even the eldest out of a group of five siblings.  He was never incredibly popular, and though he had a sweet mother (by most accounts), his father’s nature was hard and distant – as was most people’s whose childhood passed through The Great Depression.  With no comparable female affection given him in his teen years, he found his ardor for women through the filter of some Playboy magazines he found whilst hauling away a neighbor’s old newspapers for him.

Like the succor most men find in porn (in any form), these were the most beautiful specimens of the vaunted female figure that he had ever laid eyes on.  And unlike the girls at school, they were fully matured, lovely, graceful, delicate… they never made fun of him, they were always available, always in the mood, never needed to be tended to (sexually or otherwise), and never cried foul when you turned the page from one to the next.  Sure – it was a quick electric heater, rather than a full, smoky campfire (that you’d have to build and prepare) – but to a young man that knew little to no warmth in his life, it was a godsend.  It stuns me to think how much alike we were.  His entire sexual history consisted of one girl in the service before my mom.  And like me, he would’ve been better off to have stayed with her.

On a personal note: Shannon Jones of Charleston, South Carolina – I’ve never known a greater love in my life (like a man has for a woman) than yours.  The one book I ever wrote was dedicated to you, as my heart is to that memory.  And you know what?  You and Ann were right – my marriage did last (semi-happily) for only two years.  Oh, I suffered through five more before I admitted it, but it was over after two.  The only love I ever knew in it was between myself and my three wonderful children – and by the direction of my vindictive ex, none of them but my son even bear a shred of my name anymore.  I should’ve been there with you at that concert that night, and I’ve never forgiven myself for that error.  Your heart broke once – mine has broken every day since.  Please forgive me, Shannon.

Christianity kept me from my one true love, and it tore my dad away from his teen years’ substitute.  When he accepted Christ, he burned an entire duffel bag’s worth of Playboys in the same barrel in Vietnam that they burned feces – just think what a fortune those things would be worth now!  And hardly a more ill-fitting requiem could be sung for the material that had provided him with most all of the warmth that he had known in his life.

But oh – Gawd had a plan for what would be brought into his life, though: a feeble substitute (just like my ex was for Shannon) in the form of my mom.

Having been raised with bourgeois tastes, amplified by her own insatiable greed, she made sure that dad’s labors were constant, as she was happy with nothing less than what she perceived to be the absolute best – running through three houses and easily ten cars before my dad’s fall.  Yes, mom was the poster child for conspicuous consumption, and she was shameless.  If there were Joneses to be kept up with, they’d never hold a candle to her!  Of course, my dad’s meager income from sweating bullets for DuPont (all while working to insulate pipes in conditions of constantly over 100°F even in the winter) would never be enough to satisfy my mom’s status-lust, so she added the income of her “job” (mostly sit-down, do-nothing, gab-fest nurse’s work) to the family funds – and always made sure that she had first access to the entire money pot.

Yes, Yahweh’s answer for the needs of my dad’s life was a twisted, painful, and vampiric one – much like all of his answers, incidentally.  And once you add to my mom’s greed her childlike tantrums, guilt trips to shield herself from culpability, and frigid, vacillating nature, she didn’t need to be 300lbs. to be unattractive to my dad – though she was that, too.  (Oddly enough, my ex mirrored my mom even more perfectly than I reflected my dad in these regards.)

When you live with an unlovable cold fish, it’s the height of unmitigated selfishness that the fish turn to you and complain that it feels unloved.  But that is what my mom constantly said to me – even while she cheated on my dad in prison.  But I’m getting ahead of myself.

My dad lived a thankless, loveless family life.  Though he labored to earn the lion’s share of the money, my mom was the only one with enough energy left at the end of day to go with us to spend it to buy the toys that my brother and I (as most myopic kids) so wanted… and so mom got all the thanks and glory.  Dad broke up the fights.  Mom would yell, “You wait ’til your daddy gets home!”  And though she would also threaten us with the punishment (the belt) that only dad would have to provide, she also venomously played the part of our shelter from him.  Did I mention she was a mental terrorist?

I managed to subvert this possible subterfuge in my own marriage by never spanking my kids in anger (or with a belt), always talking to them about what they did wrongly afterwards, making sure they knew that I loved them (with hugs all around), and leaving the room of punishment to play – with never a still-damp eye on them.  Of course, my dad’s only example to improve upon was his dad, who would show affection by smacking his grandsons upside the head with a rolled-up newspaper.  So when my dad would spank with his belt, hug us, and then say, “All right; get outta here,” it was probably the most benevolent thing he could think of.

My dad lived his life at work and at church attempting desperately to make up for the love and approval he seldom got at home – donating much of his time to helping others, doing chores for our not-yet-but-fast-becoming-“conspicuously consumptionary” Clover Hill Baptist Church, and to writing poetry.  He wasn’t superb, but he was better than most poets I’ve run into these days.  At any rate, CHBC named him their “poet laureate”, which is silly if you consider (as CHBC hadn’t) that they are not a monarchy or government, but a church.  Still, it was a glowing moment, so I didn’t spoil it for my dad.

Even so, his heart ached for the special womanly love that he had not known for so, so long.  It was many years after, once I had left home (for the second time) and my brother still tarried there, that the unfathomable – the unthinkable – the unpredictably horrible and vile act that he did happened.  I won’t and can’t defend it, as it is unspeakably wretched and depraved, but I will say that I know what hunger and deprivation of love led him to a meal of sewage:

YOURS, mom.  You led him there.
You didn’t make him buy the ticket for Satan’s carnival, but you sure as hell drove him there and handed him the money for it!

And I know full well that it takes an incredibly perceptive and brilliant mind to come to this following conclusion, but that’s why I can arrive at it and you can’t.  Dad did what he did with that little girl because he was looking to fill a void of love.  The place it advanced to was the sick and vomitous depth of child molestation, but he entered that store for candy dots and came out with LSD.  Yes, he knew (He had to!) that he was crossing the line when he molested her, and that alone is his fault – and even that alone is enough that I rightly think he should have been put to DEATH for it…

But that doesn’t excuse the years of torture that led him there.  Your hands are not white as snow, mother.  It was a rotten, wholly inexcusable, putrid sin that he committed – but your legacy of avarice and selfishness led him to the precipice; and I count that as just as wicked.

Add to that sin what you did to me that day weeks ago – as well as the countless times you used my presence in your condo to cover up for the fact that you were behind your closed bedroom door cheating on my imprisoned dad with that white-haired, backwoods imbecile – and your hands are dirtier than dad’s.

Your cheating and scheming has caught up to you as surely and karmically as it caught up to my ex – for this day, you lose a child, too.  You had a chance to answer for your sins a long time ago, mom, but that time has passed.  I’d look down from my celestial promontory and laugh at the smug supposition that a sinner like yourself could lead a church choir – if I weren’t already filled with sorrowful pity that you blindly consider yourself innocently above reproach.

Your sentence remains: You will never again hear my voice in this world.

Posted in Final | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | 4 Comments

What goes into being a Lady

I’ve railed against bitches numerous times on Show Me in the past, and can only recall going into what constitutes being a Lady briefly.  That seems to me to be an oversight.  It is perhaps our nature (as Men) to charge into the fray, attempting to slay or silence all enemies before addressing the concerns of home and hearth.  (Now that I think about it, that pretty much sums up US foreign policy… but that’s not what this post is about.)

Lest any current (or potential) Ladies get the wrong idea when often seeing the word “bitch” on my blog, you should know that it doesn’t apply to you.  A Lady taking umbrage at a woman being called a “bitch” would be like me taking offense at someone calling a rich White guy a “cracker”.  I hate crackers, too, so we share a common enemy – just as bitches are the natural enemies of Ladies and all that we both (Ladies and Gentlemen) hold dear.

So now that we know what Ladies are not, let’s address what they are

Ladies are compassionate.  If there was ever someone running a soup kitchen out of her own kitchen, if there was ever someone listening to people’s problems even if only to lend a helpful ear, if there was ever someone putting a dollar in a vagrant subway beggar’s cup (and then shedding a tear over his plight)… it would be a Lady doing so.
The reverse of that would be the intents behind a bitch doing similar things: running charities for the tax write-offs, listening to other’s problems to gather intel and mental ammunition for later assaults, and putting a dollar in a beggar’s cup so the friends she’s with won’t think she’s a bitch.

Ladies are domestic.  Note that I didn’t say “domesticated“, although both require proper training.  Ladies practice cooking until they make Betty Crocker and Julia Child look like peers, not unparalleled gurus.  Ladies know cleaning so well that they can tell you what natural remedy gets out what stain at the drop of a dinner glass.  Ladies know decorating so well that they can tell you what color walls encourage a close dinner party function – and what color walls encourage intimate encounters.
It is Ladies that make houses into homes, fortresses into castles, countries into kingdoms.  A proper Lady lights up a home better than any mood, track, or other lighting imaginable.  There is a warmth and inwardly-drawing energy to Ladies that draws you into their company, instead of keeping you at arm’s length… which, of course, makes for the perfect hostess as well.

Ladies are respectful of Men.  I’ve covered this in depth elsewhere, but a Lady’s job is not to love her Man, but always to respect him.  Granted, the idea gets a little confused in Western society, but a lot of things that Ladies do out of respect very nearly mirror our Western ideas of what “love” is.
Ladies do not allow people of either sex to malign Real Men (or, if the spoken context is not clearly “bastards” [the male equivalent of the “bitch”] – men in general) and will politely withdraw themselves from the company of those who do, refusing any future association.  Ladies respect Men (and everything that makes us the inspiring, noble creatures we are) just as surely as Gentlemen love Ladies (and everything that makes them the gracious, lovely creatures they are).

———

This will be a longer series (as this is a good start), but I’ve had a very recent incursion of ants (NYC, Ladies and Gentlemen!) into my rented room and the one that just crawled across my screen was quite distracting.  I’m going to attempt to smoosh or otherwise kill the rest, and get back to this a bit later.

Posted in Agnostically Biblical, Instructional, Pensive | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Isolationism

I would’ve made one hell of a medieval hermit.  Seriously, as much as I enjoy being alone and (more importantly) independent, it wouldn’t surprise me at all if in a previous life I were a monk, a pioneer, or even Adam.

Do Solitarians like myself ever get lonely?  Occasionally.  But it’s a far more often desire that we be left alone, or that there just be fewer people.  And if I were honestly introspective about that, I’d probably have to say that it has less to do with my misanthropic tendencies, but more with the root cause of those tendencies.

People (in general) are evil.  The only way most people will not fail to disappoint you is in the fact that they will typically disappoint you.  And the sad part is: those are the best people.  The worst of our evil race will go above and beyond to not only make you doubt the goodness of mankind itself, but to make you dream at night of mass human extinction.

And don’t get me wrongly: I’m not generally a violent person.  Though I am a huge, hulking beast of a man that works security in some of the roughest clubs in NYC, violence is generally my last solution to a problem.  Most people are merely stupid enough that a simple “talking-to” is all they require.  It is the truly idiotic that must be restrained or punched in the face.  So, to envision me as the next leader of a coup bent on national genocide would be ridiculous in the extreme.

But if someone were to pull such a maneuver off, possibly even killing me in the process?  I can’t say I’d be opposed to it.  Bill Burr would say stop fucking.  I’m pretty sure fuckers need to die.  Again, though – I’m not a violent person; I just wish it would happen most days.  I guess as long as I’m not personally involved, it seems less bad to me.

And don’t get up on your high horses, either.  I know plenty of people that stand back every day and watch other people get berated, beat down, or otherwise violated without coming to the other person’s aid or defense.  You’re just as bad as me imagining the lot of you being murdered by your new dictatorial overlord.

True story: when I got back to NYC this time (as luck would have it), I got off the bus a stop too early.  Because of that, I ended up on the sidewalk in the early dark morning hours on the lower east side – a few blocks from Times Square.  I had on a backpack and was also carrying a loaded sea bag with my only two pillows shoved through the straps.  I had barely gotten that all together (and was still in kind of a fog from sleeping only a rough hour or two on the bus) when I heard a small (about 5’7″), young (20s), light-skinned Latino dude – also wearing a backpack – yelling out for help.

HELP!  HELP ME!  They’re taking my bags!  SOMEBODY HELP ME!”  I looked up from setting down my sea bag to see that one large (about 6’6″ or so), heavyset, bearded Black guy and another tall (about 5’10”) yet skinny Black guy with a “crackhead/homeless” look to him were both yanking at two other bags that the little Latino dude had brought with him.  The black bags were boxy in shape, and almost as tall as he was, so needless to say – he couldn’t control their possession and was about to be robbed.

As I was clearing all the “This must be staged,” TV bullshit/conditioning from my head, I looked around to see if anyone else was taking it seriously.  The bus driver (near its door) averted his gaze.  All of the passengers that had gotten off already were merely watching.  One had flipped open a video phone.

Shit.  This is actually happening,” I thought.  I set down my sea bag (containing the majority of the worldly goods I’d brought with me) and walked over to help.  “Whoa!  Hey… guys.  Seriously, whose bags are these?” was all I could think to ask as I came face-to-face with the robbers.  The only one of the men who answered me was the Latino guy who yelled, mid-struggle: “They’re mine!  These are my bags!

Oddly, surreally, neither of the Black guys made eye contact with me.  I knew whose side to take, and began pulling at the bag straps to aid the small Latino guy, all the while (somehow) keeping my cool, repeating: “C’mon, guys… stop.  Just let this one go.”  During the struggle, I lost my balance and ended up falling on top of one (or both – I don’t remember) of the bags – which the guys still didn’t stop pulling at (even with an additional 300 pounds of me on top of it all).  Check that: I think at that point the crackhead-looking dude tagged out with another average-build younger Black dude.

It was about two more minutes of struggle and the only other help that came was in the form of a scrappy little Black guy (who’d also been a passenger), who rushed at the huge Black dude like he was gonna fight him (which was really just kinda funny – as the large dude swatted him off like a mosquito), and the Latino guy’s darker-skinned Latino friend (who finally disembarked) who began pulling as well, yelling for the police (and back to the still-merely-gawking crowd to call the police).  One young, light-skinned Black woman began calling for the police as well, fumbling with her phone as if she had them on speed-dial.

After all of that (and true-to-life anticlimactically), the thieves just gave up and made their ways down the sidewalk away from the bus crowd and into the night.  I think a minute later, a cop car showed up with a cop inside it that never even got out.  The two Latino dudes quickly found a cab and safely packed their bags into it without ever thanking me or the other scrappy Black guy that had helped them.

And you know what?  I don’t care if you embody the 2% of that story that were the literal criminals, the 2% that were the ungrateful victims, or the 94% that were the jackass, apathetic bystanders… odds are pretty good that you weren’t the 2% of us that were actually helpful.  And if you 98%-er shitheads were to fall off the face of the earth or be otherwise killed today (or any day), not a single 2%-er would miss you.  You add to the chaos in my life without adding anything of value – even while I add value to your lives.

So yeah – that’s why I’d just rather be alone; that’s a small part of why I’m an MGHOW; and that’s why a global apocalypse would be a fucking Godsend.  >_<

Posted in Pensive, Rant | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

New Children’s Book Idea

Yes, I realize I’m posting this on April 1st… it’s not what you think.  Most holidays are just like every other day to me.  In that regard, I’m kind of like some early New Testament Christians (Romans 14:5) or a Jehovah’s Witness.  But I digress.

I was struck with an excellent idea for a children’s book today, and have already bought the supplies necessary to both write and illustrate it.  It’s an excellent idea, and should allow some time (during its creation) for the undue heat to wear off of my Xeresgate title.

Considering the haters that are still checking in on my blog (persistent little buggers!), I will be releasing neither story details, nor drawing screenshots.  In fact, I will even have it published under a pseudonym.  That way, the work will rise or fall on its own merit, with no hindrances of the “trolling” variety.

It will release sometime later this year, and (after it is a success) I will reveal myself as the author/illustrator.

I feel like there is a real void in the pablum that is presented for the reading and educational enjoyment of our next generation, and that there needs to be someone to fill that need with some traditional, Truthful values.

If you’re a parent, don’t worry: there won’t be any cursing (as I generally do such things here because I assume an adult readership – and if you’re an adult that personally can’t handle cussing, stop being such a prude).  These books will be so clean that they could be sold in religious bookstores.  Yeah… surprising; I know.

Anyway, more on that later this year, faithful readers.
And as always – Thanks for reading!  ^_^

Posted in Published Works, Update | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

A few teaser chapters of Xeresgate that you WON’T see on Amazon… ;)

Because my actual fans show up to my blog first (and not the troll flytrap that Amazon is), I will be rewarding the faithful with a look at some of the better chapters that lie beyond the initial eight or so.  And bear in mind, good readers: considering this is to be the first book of a dectilogy, it’s heavily expository.  So… yeah.  That’s why the first chapters seem a little slow, in my opinion.

I’d also like to take a time-out to THANK all my good readers (in 93 countries thus far!) for being such a constant stream of support in your personal emails, on your personal blogs, and in your comments.  YOU are the people I do this for – the people who appreciate who I am, instead of trying to pigeon-hole me for who I used to be.

It’s going to be a really fun book series, folks, so hang onto your proverbial hats!

And don’t forget: Haters are always gonna hate, because they have nothing else going for them.  Just remember how special you are, because if they had anything better going on in their lives, they wouldn’t be so adamant about trying to bring you down to their pathetic levels!

Keep the faith, my brethren and sistren!
I love you all madly!  ^_^

And without further ado… some of the best chapters in the book…

XERESGATE Extra Chapters for my Blog Readers

Posted in Pensive, Published Works, Update | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 4 Comments

WRITERS BEWARE: Amazon is a Corporate Whore and a Godmother to Trolls!

Image courtesy of samuelloveland.com, who also has a...

Image courtesy of samuelloveland.com, who also has a…

great article of why Amazon merging with Goodreads was a shitty idea.

———

It took me less than a month dealing with Amazon to discover what other people have apparently known for quite some time now.  I realize that some indie writers have found a way to seclude themselves enough from the online community to avoid the kinds of things that happened to me there (and make a passable living), but I’m guessing that the really talented writers in that number are few and far between.

I swear… if it’s not the big-name publishing houses screwing over the little guy, then it’s the corporate attitude of the other big whore (Amazon) that does it.  If you’re starting from nothing (i.e. – square one, little to no money) in the writing game, the odds are stacked against you, and the other teams will laugh at your attempts at insurrection all the way to the bank.

But enough prologue: allow me to delineate here (other than the host of voices in the link above) why starting writers should avoid like the plague CreateSpace (owned by Amazon) and Kindle Direct Publishing (also an affiliate of Amazon).

1)  They are disingenuous about royalty streams.  Let’s take my book, for example.  It has a list price of $10, which I thought was fair, given current market trends.  I am allowed to set that at will.  That is the actual price one pays when purchasing my book from the CreateSpace page.  This price promises $2 more in royalties from readers who are brave enough to pay the author’s list price whilst looking at a page (which I had no hand in designing, take note) admittedly far less snazzy than the average Amazon listing page.

Then there’s the Amazon page.  If there is any given day where you sell even one copy of your book on CS (Trust me; I know.), Amazon will drop the advertised list price of your book a full 50 cents on their site to attempt to draw any more sales decidedly their way.

This is corporate evil on two levels: A) the Amazon.com royalty is $2 less, so they could afford to drop the book down by $1.99 off the list price and still come out ahead of the writer (who they barely pay even as it is), and B) everyone looking for your book with any search engine is going to see the Amazon entry for your book before the CS entry (In the case of Google, Amazon was the #1 entry and CS dragged across the finish line at #10!), making it nearly impossible to get any sales through CS.

2)  They are dishonest about printing/shipping times.  So forget about paying your light bill without a second job, unless you’ve got enough physical stamina to stand on your feet all day selling your book to whoever passes by (and God help you if you don’t live in a major metropolitan area with lots of foot traffic!).

But even that will be hindered by Amazon, as they take their sweet ass time getting “writer proofs” (“at-cost” copies of your book) to you.  For example, the “proof” copies of my book I ordered through CS five days ago are set to arrive by the 21st.  Guess what the slowest shipping option Amazon has to offer today is promising?  Yep – the 21st.  Fuck.

3)  They create the perfect atmosphere for trolls.  Before I start this one, allow me to say that I almost didn’t.  I don’t like giving shitty people press – whether good or bad – because they just don’t deserve it.  If they were worth a damn, you’d hear about them from anyone else before you’d hear about them from me, so I hate to give low-life nobodies the time of day.

That said, something must be said about the shit-eating, smarmy trolls that decided it was worth their times to 1) buy something other than my book on Amazon (Believe me, I checked!), which gives them free reign to review anything (more on that fucktarded Amazon business practice later!), and then 2) write defamatory reviews about a book that they clearly have not read… all for the fun of being miscreant douchenozzles.

First of all, as you can see from the Amazon link, these idiots cannot spell (and as such, one can quickly determine that even if they are writers, they’re shitty ones).  Secondly, you can take one look at the accounts the reviews are posted from to see that they’ve only reviewed my book – ergo, they are lying shitheads.  Thirdly, I’ve been keeping a close watch on my book sales (enough that I personally know every person that has bought this book – these twat-waffles are not among them).  Lastly, their entries betray the fact that they have not read my book – Moron #1 mentions something only discussed by me on a separate forum (that’s not in the book), and Moron #2 clearly says that he hasn’t read past the first chapter!

“Yep, those are the kinds of idiots Amazon should allow to review my books!” he commented, his speech dripping with irony.  Which leads me to number 4…

4)  They stymie the attempts of writers to protect their reputations.  Imagine for a second that you’re a new writer – eager to get your life’s work “out there” – and one of the very first things you run afoul of are some mouth-breathing degenerates like the above two asswipes.  The first thing you’d hope Amazon would be willing to do is (when presented with all the evidence I’ve just shared with you) TAKE THE GODDAMNED REVIEWS DOWN.  I mean, shouldn’t they?!?  The trolls didn’t even buy the product!!

That point is moot to at least three Amazon fuckheads from “customer service” that I dealt with.  Like most hypocritical corporate drones, they hid behind policy

P.S. - Just in case you may be harboring some delusions that we MAY be on your side, writers... please feel free to eat a bag of dicks.

P.S. – Just in case you may be harboring some delusions that we MAY be on your side, writers… please feel free to eat a bag of dicks.

What the fuck, Amazon?!?  So it doesn’t matter that I can prove that the trolls haven’t bought or read my book, but just that their “reviews” fall into some arbitrary rules you’ve set up to keep your customers (not the product creators!) happy??  You shitbag corporate fuck-muffins!  FUCK YOU!!!!

What’s worse is that these avaricious fucks won’t let you post any responses against the trolls unless you’ve done with your account exactly what they did with theirs: BUY SOMETHING.  You greedy corporate whore, Amazon!  I hope all your collective legs grow together and you’re then forced to suffer the pirate curse of being able to enjoy NOTHING (from Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl)… because that’s exactly what you deserve!

I don’t know about you, faithful readers, but I (for one) will never be buying anything from Amazon (or their affiliates) again!  Even though it will hurt future sales of my book (until I release a new edition), I’d suggest that you do the same.  If you want my book in the mean time, use the CS link in protest.  😉

Posted in Instructional, Published Works, Rant, Update | 8 Comments