DUCK DYNASTY in books?. . .You Got To Be Kidding Me!!

 

 

Wal-Mart.

And this is where my rant begins.

Wal-Mart.  Book aisle.  Best-Sellers.  Duck. . .Dynasty?

And right then and there I could’ve Quacked all over myself!

 Duck Dynasty pic 1

(UGH!!)

So far I’m a little peeved about Duck Dynasty actually having a published book. . .wait!  I think they’ve got four??  So what to make of this. . .I really don’t know only to say that I’m rather disappointed with the publishing industry for even considering giving Duck Dynasty book deals.  Duck Dynasty, and IMO, is like the Macarena, is like Kato Kailen, is like Gangnam Style (love the song, btw!), and last but not least, like every “one-hit wonder” that has existed on the face of this earth for more than 15 minutes or less. . .Duck Dynasty is exactly this “a one-hit wonder” where I’m in it for the long haul.  So now I ponder:  Is the publishing industry selling out?  Has the publishing industry actually gone mad?  I mean do I have to be on a reality TV show just to get a book deal myself? 

 

(Hmm. . .Maybe I should grow a beard and slap on some daisy dukes?)

 

It saddens me to think that there might be some truth about today’s publishing industry opening more doors for reality TV celebs and not necessarily for those “non” meaning us struggling authors.  You mean to tell me that reading about a TV celeb is more interesting than reading a good, GOOD story?  And if so, does this mean that authors are becoming extinct because publishers (and agents) would rather deal with a “one-hit wonder” and not necessarily a career author? 

 

Well if this is the case, then I’m screwed, literally! 

 

And if this is the case, there’s no need for me to continue ranting and raving on.  I’ll just save my keystrokes for something more purposeful than to waste it on a sitcom that will be forgotten faster than it was conceived!

 

Duck Dynasty. . .yeah right!  I think I’ll find more pleasure watching Kim and Ray J getting it on!  bth_ray_j_kim_kardashian

(ooh, la la!)

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“Post-Menstrual” perhaps?

So how do you go from this- – – – – -> Lowrider Impala– –

 

 

to this?- – – – – ->Donk Impala

 

Talk about fucking-up a classic!

(Either I’m getting old or I’m just having a bad day?)

And you don’t need to be a genius to figure that out!

 

 

So why are people under the impression that by dishing out money to hear the secrets of a successful businessman (or woman) automatically entitles them to that luxury?

 

Now referring to Donald Trump’s latest seminar or the Trump Universities “supposed scandal” of those who invested, then after, complained about learning nothing only to end up in debt.

 

Aside from myself, does anyone else here honestly believe that Donald Trump is about to divulge the secrets to his success just because someone paid to hear it?

 

For anyone who is successful, those successes usually derive from some form of a self-strategic ethic and not necessarily someone else’s strategies.  In the pursuit of success, the whole idea, while a romantic one, is not without heartbreak or hard work; there’s a vast amount of time, sweat and money when trying to be successful in any business, and by the time success is achieved one will then find themselves asking:  Do I really want to make it easy for someone else to achieve my success after what I’ve just been through because they paid to hear it?  Now if people in general can understand that very concept, then I hate to be the bearer of bad news folks, but you got what you paid for.

 

So my 2-cents is this:  Stop whining!  Because the money you invested to hear things you were never going to hear, you could have very easily invested it to start the path of your own success!  

 

And you don’t need to be a genius to figure that out!

“Good China” – Flash Fiction

 

 

     He latched onto my nipple.

     The way newborn sons latch onto nipples-only distant.  And the scenario takes me

back to a place of pubescent butterflies and crimson donuts sprinkled in Christmas glitter gold. 

     I sigh, and run my fingers through his hair-short, refined, tousled.  The gold of the calico blond strands shimmer beneath the sunlight probing into our little secret affair.

     From amidst his suckling, he glances up at me, my reflection stares back.  I look down at my white dress.  The eyelets on my dress are like the windows of my soul, missing threads.

     I sweep an anxious eye across the nightstand.  Divorce papers unsigned, yet lay perfectly folded beside a pen tempting me to sign the mistake you’ve made. 

     My mind drifts back to that hot August afternoon.  A sticky note posted to you from me on our front door:  Dear John, Your girlfriend called.  I forgot to buy Kleenex at the store.  You moved out, and he was to move in, your best friend who didn’t know you had moved out prior to him knocking on what used to be “our” front door, on a late September morning. 

     He leaves me a sticky note on my front door:  X O, X O, empty boxes.

     I am guilty to say we now share in this room, no longer sacred or abide by or united in our matrimony.  Not even my nipple knows no boundaries as my tears slip through the sand of decaying bones; your mother’s ring.  It no longer resides on my left hand. 

     My nipple grows raw, not with sensation, but with sentiment.

     Because the open range echoes the sound of death’s love aging gracefully near.  I thank you for the memories of when my heart was broken next to my good China.