Thursday, May 29, 2014

Make Time For Me-Time

    Our world is going NUTZOID.

    Sometimes it feels like we want to STOP IT or GET OFF IT — but there are no brakes, no handy astronaut suits.

    It’s then that we experience STRESS, TENSION, maybe MURDER.

    Fortunately, there’s a solution.

    MY solution!

    It’s called the Orville D. K. Hoolihan “Make Time For Me-Time” Method, and over the coming months I’ll be letting you in on a few of its hard-won secrets.

    We’ll sort out payment options at a later stage.

Okay, So What Is “Me-Time”?

    Put simply, Me-Time is time for YOU.

    But we don’t call it You-Time because from YOUR point of view, you’re ME.

    So the ME here is YOU, not ME.

    (And to clarify, when I say WE, I’m talking here about myself. No one else is involved. It’s just ME and YOU (only YOU are ME for the purpose of discovering Me-Time)*)

Though I can discover it too, because I’m ME.

    Me-Time is your time.

    It really is that simple.

Why Do I Need Me-Time?

    Ever felt like your day, your own personal space, is being ever more crowded out by the needs of others?

    Ever been pinned to the wall by the demands of time?

    When this happens, your cortisol levels SHOOT RIGHT UP, along with your HAIR, and life feels UNCOMFY AS HELL.

    You take pills, you smoke crack, you drink alcohol — but nothing seems to work out.

    What you need is quality Me-Time.

    Time to stop, to pause, to reflect, to change your tights or whatever.

    You can’t stop the world, but you can STOP yourself.

    For over 2000 years Buddhists have called this state of mind ‘serenity’.

    I call it 2000 bucks well spent.

    But more on the pricing LATER.

The Neuroscience Of Me-Time

    Scores of scientific studies have shown that the calm, reflective state of mind produced by taking quality Me-Time has a beneficial effect on brain functioning.

    Synapses become more efficient, blood supply to all the major brainoid areas improves, and excess juices drain away.

    When individual culex pipiens gnats were isolated from others in their cloud, their stress levels plummeted by 100%.**

    Such is the power of Me-Time

Great! Tell Me More About Me-Time!

    I will, I will — in time.

    My “Make Time For Me-Time” Method is foolproof, and in a future post I’ll give you TIPS to GET you started.

    But first I want you to do something for me.

    Take some time today to make a mental check of where all your time goes.

    Check off things like laundry, administration, cooking, cleaning and such.

    Keep your list until we meet again next time.

    You’re starting on a journey.

    An incredible journey.

    Right now.

Orville D.K. Hoolihan is the author of over 250 self-help books in 2,500 languages. He has helped trillions of people solve problems in their lives and his methods are taught all around the   Slovakia. He lives in Margate, UK, with his wife Bonnie and their two sons Gordon and Listerine.

** DISCLAIMER — Trials conducted by the Insect Biology Department of the University of Wisconsin, 2007. These trials were called into question by researchers from Oxford University after it was discovered that 100 of the 100 isolated gnats died on the way to the isolation chamber as a result of faulty tweezers supplied to the research team. The Oxford researchers argued that the gnats’ reduced stress levels were most likely the result of their untimely deaths. Investigations of the trial continue. 

Monday, May 26, 2014

Whitsun Hats On

    Any alien hordes scrutinising the United Kingdom during the latter half of the Zellion-Kruutz Cycle with the aid of a suitably fine-tuned Pan-molecular Oojit Morphoscope Array might be forgiven for thinking that its entire population had nothing better to do of a Bank Holiday Monday than to gad about the rain-lashed panorama fulfilling unnecessary DIY dreams and shopping online for strategically marketed “bargains” before settling down in front of the telly — full of dread for the “back to normal” Tuesday looming on the horizon — to lap up an ITV premi√®re of a blockbuster movie they went to see at the end of the previous summer on the August Bank Holiday the BBC claimed was the WETTEST FUCKING EVER.

    Those aliens might think that — but I won’t.

    As the years have rolled by, thrusting wisdom upon me in the form of worry lines, excess flab, and an overall bone texture approximating ever closer to that of dust, I’ve become something of a Bank Holiday connoisseur.

    There are rainy ones, sunny ones, happy ones, sad ones — all involving juggling acts of family and friends on a par with Zeus playing keepy-uppy with a sextet of Chinese circuses.  And I love them. (The Bank Holidays, not the circuses.)

    In particular, I love Whitsun.

    If you’ve checked out any of my entertaining stories available right now on Amazon perfect for Bank Holiday reading whether you’re luxuriating in an armchair rocking in a ski lift or simply idling in the bath rubbing exotic soap over your flesh like a camel masseur de-stressing his favourite dromedary with a tangerine buy now for only 75p/99c you won’t be disappointed in fact you’ll be anointed with a weird kind of glee particularly in the latter half of the Ecdysisium book when the suspense factor flies off into the stratosphere thanks to a rollercoaster ride in an elevator OUT OF CONTROL then you’ll know that I’m something of a Whit.

    At school, I was forever being asked to say something witty — typically by BIG KIDS who would beat me up if I didn’t.  They beat me up even if I did make with the wit, but don’t let that ruin the story for you.  Ruining my childhood is enough of a trophy for those bastards.

    My one consolation for having to endure this sorry childhood — a childhood so riven with strife that I made Oliver look like the sun shined out of his lucky, lucky ass — is that Whitsun got to be MY day.

    It was “Whitty’s One” — Whit’s ‘Un.

    For one day only I was paraded down the street on a cushion like some curious Indian potentate while kids from 2 to 15 threw sweets and offered home-made gifts, occasionally cheese.

    Then there would be dancing, a trip to the cinema, and my favourite frozen cod in breadcrumbs for which my Mum was prepared to splash out a humungous 8p.

    It’s only later that I found out the true reason for celebrating Whitsun.  According to my exorcist priest friend (and believe me, everyone should have one), the origins of Whitsun are twofold and depend on whether you’re a Christian or an unreconstituted heathen.*

    * If you’re unsure, take this test:

    1) Have you ever strangled a chicken as part of a ritual?
    2) Do you personally know more than six archdruids?
    3) Do you regularly dance to Motorhead with your skull imprint curtains closed?

    If you answered YES to all three questions, you’re probably an unreconstituted heathen. Otherwise, you might be a Christian, informed non-believer or exorcist.

    The Christians hold that Whitsun commemorates the return of Jesus’s spirit to the world.  He hovered over his disciples for a few minutes before performing a spectacular aerial display with the Red Arrows.  Thus we have the two terms “White Sunday” and “Flying Son of God Plus A Load of Jets”.  The former version stuck, eventually being shortened to “Whitsun” when Henry VIII choked on an onion shortly before dispatching Anne Boleyn.

    The heathen origins of the celebration go back much further, possibly even as far back as the dinosaurs or the primordial swamp.  Gay apparel is donned, goats are mutilated, and revellers gather at midnight to chant naked.

 “Wheat soon.  Wheat soon.
    Make our crops grow high.
    Keep away Pteranodons
    and Stegosauri.”

    You know the one.

    These days, Whitsun has been demoted to the humble “Spring Bank Holiday” — a euphemism for Torrential Rain Fest of Biblical Proportions.  By the time you read this, Whitsun as was will be over, slotted between all the other run-of-the-mill Sundays like a Barbara Cartland novel in a bookcase of recycled cardboard.

    So spare a thought for this Day That Once Was So Much More, whether you believe Jesus flew with the Arrers, or Lemmy Kilminster is the true saviour of the universe — or even all that business about the 2 to 15 year-old kids throwing sweets at my cushion-borne form.  Hey, some of those kids were as old as 35.

    Have a great Whitsun. 

Thursday, May 22, 2014

Guided Meditation du Jour

    Forget all your problems right now.

    Walk away, walk away, walk away.

    Leave them, feel them fade.

    And walk towards the Sunlight.

    Walk, and walk, then climb on up.

    Bound from cloud to cloud.

    Up and up and up.

    All the way to the Plateau of Serenity.

    It’s quiet here; the clouds are fluffy white.

    So lay down, take it easy.

    Aaaaaand stretch out.

    Feel that tension slip away.

    Feel it drop away into the clouds.

    From your head...

    ...all the way to your toes.

    Lie still, comforted by a glow of warmth inside of you.

    Lie still, and wait for your Relaxation Horse.

    She comes now, she bounds across the clouds.

    Feel them quiver softly beneath you

    as her hooves trot closer, closer.

    Hear her breath, her swishing tail

    and be comforted by her gentle movement.

    Now feel her tongue against your neck.

    It’s a warm tongue, a soft tongue, a loving tongue,

    massaging your neck

    in gentle circles,

    easing out all the tension.

    Round it goes one more time,

    then down along your back

    from the top

    to the bottom.

    From side

    to side.

    And all the way back up again

    round to your tummy

    and up

    past your lips

    to your hair.

    All the time relaxing and relaxing you

    as she hums

    and whinneys

    and plays her magic

    somniferous flute

    with her equally magical ears.


    and humming

    and calling

    to your Inner Stillness Reptile.

    Soothing it

    as it slumbers deep beneath your chest.

    Feel your Inner Stillness Reptile.
    Feel him doing NOTHING.

    Feel him live.

    Feel him love.

    Feel him BE.

    Feel for your Relaxation Horse.

    Love her for sharing time with you

    as her tongue laps round the inside of your head,

    cleansing your mind

    of all unhelpful thoughts.

    Love her for licking round the inside

    of your Inner Stillness Reptile’s head,

    bringing purity

    and calm

    and serenity

    via the miracle

    of her Buddhic saliva.

    Feel her drool splash onto your face,
    Lending freshness to your aura

    energy to your karma

    and love to your chakras.

    Your Inner Stillness Reptile is floating now,

    borne on a pool of love

    like a bush baby

    in a bathtub

    of happiness.

    Feel him turn and roll and bob,

    feel him soothe your heart

    and calm your mind
    and still your digestive system.

    As your Relaxation Horse

    blesses every inch of your skin with kisses.

    Nostril kisses planted like seeds.


    and relaxing

    and warming

    All your cares away.

    Gone forever, away.

    When you rise you’ll feel refreshed

    and alive.

    Blessed by a sense of relaxation

    more profound

    than when Andy Warhol

    drugged himself to the point of terminal stupor.

    You’ll walk tall,

    you’ll walk free,

    you’ll walk...kinda odd for a few minutes maybe.

    But the world is yours for the taking.

    Go live.

    Go live. 
    Go live.


Monday, May 19, 2014

Pumping The Gulf

   On the rare occasions when I’ve been a lazier arse than Captain Slack Sphincter I shall endeavour to post vintage delights from the vaults.

    It’s a cheap way of generating content and ought to guarantee that when you come looking for your regular fix of Whirly Zaniness at 9.59am every Monday morning, you’re not left wondering why there’s a vacuum of fun, a chasm of mirth, a pit of singularly unamusing gobbledigook.

    I call this initiative my “gift to the world”.

    So here’s Vault Face #1 — “One-arm Barry”...

One-arm Barry

I bumped into One-arm Barry this morning. Only I didn’t bump, exactly. And neither did he. We just passed one another by. And his name most likely isn’t Barry, anyway. But that’s what I call him. Because he only has one arm.

You know that thing you do when it’s cold? Shove both hands in your pockets and stumble on, like a top-heavy Tudor house leaning into the street? That’s how One-arm Barry walks, only one of the hands stuffed into his pockets doesn’t really exist. If you look close, you can see — underneath the right sleeve of his coat, there’s nothing. It’s like a clever Origami fold twixt shoulder and pocket. 2D masquerading as 3D: thin air as arm.

So as I see him, talking to Mr & Mrs No Idea Who They Are, and I wonder — have they, too, figured out that he’s One-arm Barry, or has he fooled them into believing he’s just some plucky chap, stood with his hands in his pockets cussing Gordon Brown for dragging the country into recession?

“Third place in the Euro elections,” he says — and it’s true. The Conservatives have maxed out and the independence parties have had a field day.

But is this really what he believes or is he merely saying what he thinks will afford him a moment’s “time of day”, spared from having to explain himself? To explain what it’s like to be missing an arm?

I pass him by, with no idea of how the conversation got started, and though One-arm Barry is clearly a tucker-awayer, I consider whether I’m being unkind in gracing him with a shunning of the truth. Nonetheless, I’m minded to think that perhaps we all persist in this weird kind of inbetweenworld somehow. That we all have a phantom arm, tucked into our pocket, just so, whose existence compromises us in all that we do.

Or maybe you’re spared this unsettling conjecture?

(originally posted June 2009)

Thursday, May 15, 2014

The Future Is Fiction: Mine Versus Yours

 The future hasn't happened yet, and this will always be true.

So how does this affect the characters in your story?

Here's a couple of answers to get you started:

1) Same as in real life.
2) Way different to real life.

If this sounds unhelpful, remember what Walt Whitman said in Song of Myself:

"Pesky racoon damn near bit my toe off 
then some dumb bee stung my naked ass."

That, my friends, is the epitome of unhelpful — which is why Whitman replaced the whole raging at the denizens of nature section with all that stuff about “containing multitudes”.  Smart guy, in spite of the ludicrous beard, it seems.

The truth is that the future matters to your characters like it matters to real people. They will mistakenly believe they can PREDICT it. Worse still, they may think they OWN IT.  Truth is, everyone is the world's greatest clairvoyant in their own head (especially those who believe they have no control over events). 

In a world of lions and angels, we've evolved to be this way.  We've evolved to GENERATE COPIOUS AMOUNTS OF FICTION.  Especially fiction about the future!

And this is where conflict comes in. 

When your characters fight, almost always what's at issue is THE FUTURE.  Mine versus Yours, no inbetweeny compromise.  In the real world of your characters’ fictional lives there are duels involving swords and laser zappers, but behind the dotted i’s of their prosey existence, two nebulous bundles of motivation battle for supremacy with the fury of selfish genes.  (It's true that speculation about the future doesn't always involve conflict, but all that stuff is for recipe books and compendiums of LOLcats.)

What's important here for writers is that the generators of this necessary-for-survival FANCY are themselves creatures of pure fiction.  In real life we get to dip only one ladle of speculation into one home turf muse pool, but when we’re writing, we have the luxury of manipulating an imagined imaginer and an imagined imagination.  In speculative terms, it’s a dual wield Ladle of Fancy scenario, and WAY DIFFERENT TO REAL LIFE.

Your characters’ clairvoyant savantery is potentially boundless, and you can tweak the parameters of their conflict (within a potentially boundless conflicting world/milieu) WAY MORE than you could in real life — not that you would ever want to become a confirmed parameter tweaker in the supermarket or at work, of course: you’d be arrested on the spot.

  In fiction — the battle for the future — everything can (and must) be BIGGED ON UP till any conflicts thus generated whoosh past the Alien versus Predator scale and on into 'Putin takes on the Cosmos wearing only a leotard' territory.  If you get it wrong, you can always tone it down, but in the first instance (the speculative instance) it’s necessary to crank all the dials way past the Spinal Tap threshold, the humble 11.

I'll say it again: the future hasn't happened yet, and this will always be true.

Real people argue over it, clashing against one another with their real imaginations, their ideas of “how things could be”.

Your characters live and breathe in truly morphable worlds, and you may tinker with their inner workings like Gandalf combing his hair and beard a follicle at a time for Maximum Fantasy Wizard Effect.

Gift your characters a perfect future — then poise it on the tip of a dagger gripped by a demon. And write it all down...

Monday, May 12, 2014

Wilt Pheromone

Hmmm, this one has potential.

He’s a sex worker, comes into contact with pimps and lowlife on the job — and solves  crimes.

Always accompanied by his dwarf poodle, Bobby.  Frail since birth, Bobby often places Wilt in danger.

Possible plots:

* The Fake Dildo Heist.  Wilt and Bobby get trapped in a cargo hold full of contraband, destination PERU.  Lots of killer gnats and ladyboys armed with machetes.

* The Man With The Golden Cock Ring.  An octogenarian porn star has his final wicked way with the world by contaminating the LA water supply with...what?  Poison is too “Batman”, and there’s no good reason why he’d do that (or rationale behind obtaining, then releasing, said poison), and semen — though apt — lacks the threat of necessary deadliness AND is kind of creepy and eeeew.  WHATEVER the octogenarian porn star is up to, Wilt and Bobby are trapped in a lift and the bad guy’s cock ring is electrified or something.  So there’s a scene a bit like the one with the buzzsaw in Goldfinger, only Wilt is strapped to a bed, his manhood handcuffed by a cock ring connected to the mains.  The bad guy cackles and says, “time to fry, Mr Pheromone” while Bobby yaps haplessly from a chained suitcase.  Oh, and there’s dancing girls.

Naturally, Wilt has an Achilles heel.  He’s butch, roguish, sensual and well hung, but ever since an unfortunate on-screen session with Mellony Nipcheese and Daphne Amazonbags involving a faulty penis enlargement suite, his erections have been intermittent.

So when he’s battling evil, at the back of his mind there is niggling doubt.

More plots:

* The Lubricated Gimp.  No one knows who he is.  All we know is: he hates porn.  He creeps onto the set, squirms his way into the action, and throws the scene  — all at great cost to the film production company.  Then he slithers away on a slime trail of KY jelly.  Only Wilt Pheromone can catch him.  But it’s a bad week, a floppy week, and his wobbly mojo is no match for the moral crusader in the nylon lederhosen.

* Stunnas In A Flap.  An unpleasant new sexually transmitted disease has wreaked havoc on the girls of Finewood Studios.  Foul play is suspected, and Wilt arrives on the scene with a rucksack full of illegal bug-busting pharmaceuticals.  But Bobby is hit by a wayward camera boom and threatened with permanent brain damage.  Wilt’s dilemma is the worst he’s ever encountered.  Rush his faithful pet to the emergency dog hospital — or endeavour to do something spectacular with the first semi he’s had in a fortnight?

So, yes, Wilt lives in London, in a flat like Sherlock & Watson — only no Una Stubbs style housemaid.  His servant is a fat Chinese guy.  Great cook, master of kung fu — but blind.

Wilt also owns a raft.  It features in some of the water-based adventures on the Thames.  It has a motor attached, and a pirate flag and stuff.  Only problem is, Wilt has no raft licence and he’s always getting chased by the river police.

Ah!  I’m getting dialogue now, I’m getting dialogue...

The officer hurled a megaphone to his lips.  “Stop the raft.  It’s illegal.  Hands up — or we’ll shoot.”

“Hey, I’m the one who does the shooting around here,” cried Wilt, “or at least I did until my accident.”  He revved up the motor and turned his wickerwork monstrosity towards St Paul’s Cathedral.  “Stop me if you must, river cops, but I’ve got a posse of fat ass chicks to save from  a drug-crazed sex fiend in a Dracula outfit — and thanks to my dog being laid up with a mystery dysentery-based illness along with Wong, my faithful non-Una Stubbs manservant, I’ve got to go it alone.  And only partially on the bone.”

Hmmmm.  Maybe this one does have potential... 

Thursday, May 8, 2014


click to enlarge
original image c/o, doctored version c/o le moisery

Monday, May 5, 2014

What Kind Of Bank Holiday Celebrator Are You?

    Bank Holiday Monday is with us once again, this time in the form of a deferred Cornish drunken orgy cum workers’ holiday kinda shebang, and everyone who’s anyone who’s someone other than no one is CELEBRATING THE HECK ON OUTTA THEIR GODDAMN HECK!

    But what kind of Bank Holiday Celebration Guru are YOU? 

    Beaming sunshine or drizzly shower?  London Zoo or Domestos World?  Open highway or 15 mile tailback on the A5?

    Why not take this fun Abysswinksback Bank Holiday test — and find out!.

1) Oh No!  Legoland has run out of burgers for the kids!  What are you going to do?

a) Keep smiling
b) Buy hot dogs
c) Complain to Mr Lego
d) Punch the nearest fat woman
e) Clamber on top of the burger van and belt out a song in my bra and pants

2) Your doorbell rings.  Instead of the salesman you expected, it’s PRINCE WILLIAM.  Over to you, bank holiday dude!

a) Oh, I scream and scream and scream and offer him M&S vol au vents
b) Time to discuss my Royal Family mug, plate, glass, saucepan and garden hoe collection
c) Ask him where Harry is
d) Dig out the nearest weapon and SLASH SLASH SLASH
e) Twerk till my knicker elastic goes ping

3) You’re judging traditional English puddings with Heston Blumenthal.  Dale Winton’s Spotted Dick is a disaster, but you know that if you’re overly critical he’ll throw a hissy fit and top himself.  Blumenthal’s cutting remarks have propelled the tangerine popster right to the very edge — and now it’s your turn.  What do you say about Winton’s Dick?

a) What a fabulous creation
b) My, this could almost be from Waitrose
c) Have you ever felt any of the National Lottery balls?
d) Tastes like shit, you weirdo
e) If you tug hard on my nipples, this glitzy 6 foot high disco ball hat of mine lights up and fires lightning bolts

4) Uh oh.  It’s raining.  What do you do to make a drizzly bank holiday really special?

a) Every bank holiday is special, even the drizzly ones
b) Open up a can of John West red salmon and defrost a few baguettes
c) Scream, “told you so”
d) Construct an incendiary device
e) High kick my way down the street brandishing a lewd abdominal tattoo

5) A trio of jumbo jets collides over Hawaii prompting a nuclear stand-off between Honolulu and the West.  What kind of baby giraffe are you?

a) I’m on my feet from the word go, gambollin’ and being generally spotty
b) Long neck, curious, optimistic
c) Rarely ill but prone to gnat bites
d) The killer kind — punching at people’s faces with my baby giraffe hooves like a downtrodden housewife moments after being informed of George Clooney’s death
e) The kind that flashes its gash on live TV and makes provocative remarks with all the innate talent of a toddler showing a total lack of respect for breakables or the pain threshold of pets


Rank yourself thusly:

For every a — minus 2 points
For every b — minus 1 point
For every c — zero points
For every d — plus 1 point
For every e — plus 2 points   


0-4 Points
Dedicated Bank Holiday Lover

Nothing thrills you more than the prospect of a national holiday dependent on the closure of banks.  You have T shirts, hats, balloons, flip flops and kazoos to commemorate the event, and you’re more than capable of pissing EVERYONE off with your enthusiasm, especially if it rains.

5-8 Points
Cool Bank Holiday Enjoyer

Sure, there’s work to be done, but you can JUST ABOUT set it all aside and make an effort to ENJOY YOURSELF.  Why, you may even treat yourself to an ice cream.  And you may even EAT IT.

9-12 Points
“Take It Or Leave It” Bank Holiday Neutral

Bank holidays are perfect for finally figuring out what the fuck is wrong with the lawnmower or slapping blobs of Polyfilla over every crack in every wall in your living room, kitchen, bathroom, bedroom — and shed.  As an added bonus, you don’t need to shave — especially if you’re a goil.

13-16 Points
Bank Holiday Hater
Time to fill the scoop of your purpose built Antibankholiday Catapult with lukewarm cow muck and bombard every garden in the street before pumping the very worst death metal from a giant speaker stack at 9000 decibels and going on the rampage with an UZI.  Bank holiday?  GRRRRR!!!!

17-20 Points
Lady Gaga

You like nothing better than stripping down to your underwear and pretending you can sing as well as Charlotte Church.  Objectionable, and weirder looking than a mutant horse, you are universally loathed by everyone other than inadequate males unable to control their need to masturbate.

Thursday, May 1, 2014

Save The Internet

    Now that the record has been set straight regarding LOLcats, it’s time to get started on Wuzza Wuzza Gerbils.

    Dealing more damage to the internet at large than the original 10 Killer Facts About My Genitalia meme, Wuzza Wuzza Gerbils are now thought to constitute the biggest threat to personal online data than the possibility of swallowing fake quicksand was for every Hollywood Tarzan from Buster Crabbe to the forthcoming Ricky Gervais.

    Hang on — what gerbils are these?

    I’ve never witnessed any rodents, Wuzza Wuzza or otherwise, marauding around my own private corner of cyberspace.

    Indeed — and that is why they’re so uncannilly dangerous.

    If you’re aware of the Heartbleed bug, you'll know that the World Wide Web has been placed under threat by its own malfunctioning architecture.  Under normal circumstances the chief culprits responsible for interwebbular shenanigans are viruses, hackers and pornographic pop-ups, but since the Heartbleed bug hit the scene, zillions of worm holes have opened up around the globe through which evil cybergerbils now leap.

    Essentially each ‘gerbil’ is a segment of rogue computer code.  Internet security experts have coined the phrase Wuzza Wuzza to indicate the subtle ways these gerbils have of concealing themselves.  It is believed that once all of them have been released into the World Wide Web wild, they will begin grouping together until they form a Supergerbil of malicious code, whereupon the future of mankind will become officially “pre-toast”.

    Thankfully, help is at hand.

    Three safe links exist on the internet.  Click on any of these and not only are you guaranteed access to a Wuzza-free site but the mere act of clicking will exterminate Gerbils in large numbers, kind of like the way not believing in Christmas is rumoured to precipitate the deaths of thousands of reindeer.  Or angels.

    The point is that one such link exists here on this very site!

    And here it is:

    You don’t have to purchase my story after you’ve followed the link, nor even submit rapturous praise to the Amazon Kindle Store review section, nor (and this is the clincher) post me flowers or chocolate — but if you value your planet, it’s your duty to click on the link.

    When you’re done with that, then do by all means click on the other two links below.


    Safe Link #2

    Safe Link #3