After wandering the desert for forty days and forty nights in search of enlightenment, narrowly escaping an ambush by a pack of rabid gerbils, and plotting subversive ways to sneak meat into the food supply of the PETA vanguard, Dr. Hack has returned.
And the Internet was never the same.
--Dr. Hack
Friday, May 4, 2007
/rant/
(A commercial currently on T.V.)
ANNOUNCER: [Pointless glorifying on the great cultural import of Bob Barker, who is standing in front of an iconic "The Price Is Right," logo.
CUT TO
Bob Barker, "The Price Is Right," logo undulating softly against the glazed donut haze of the ever present piss yellow curtain in the background.
BOB BARKER: Thanks Lisa. After all!
Bob Barker does a dumbfuck armspread and smiles like he's sucking the petrified 2,000-year-old shit out of King Tut's colon.
BOB BARKER: How many people can say their lives are all fun and games?!
CUT TO
Me, sitting in front of the T.V., screaming.
ME: NONE OF US, YOU ASSHOLE. LIFE IS STRUGGLE AND PAIN AND A LOT OF FUCKING WORK. THAT'S WHY YOU'RE A PRICK, BOB BARKER. BECAUSE YOU MAKE STUPID, BANAL COMMENTS UNDERSCORING HOW MUCH OF A SHILL YOU ARE FOR THE STATUS QUO WITHOUT ANY THOUGHT TO THINGS OF RELEVANCE IN THE WORLD ABOUT US. YOU'RE JUST ANOTHER MINDLESS COG IN THE AMERICAN MEDIA MACHINE, MAKING US FEEL MEDICATED AND SEDATED IN OUR COTTON CANDY FANTASY LAND, GOBBLING UP STUPID FASTER THAN YOU CAN SAY FUNNEL CAKE WITH EXTRA POWDERED SUGAR, PLEASE, AT A STATE FAIR.
LIFE IS NOT OKAY. LIFE IS NOT FUN. QUIT TELLING ME I'M HAVING A GOOD TIME WATCHING YOUR SHOW. THE THIRTY YEARS YOU SPENT WORKING ON IT WERE A TRAVESTY. "THE PRICE IS RIGHT," IS THE MOST GOD AWFUL THING TO HAPPEN TO PROGRESS AND INTELLECTUAL ACTIVISM SINCE THE CHRISTIAN RELIGION WAS SQUIRTED OUT OF A GOAT'S ASS IN MACEDONIA.
DUMBASS.
Need advice? Sure you do. E-mail Dr. Hack and he'll set you straight.
ANNOUNCER: [Pointless glorifying on the great cultural import of Bob Barker, who is standing in front of an iconic "The Price Is Right," logo.
CUT TO
Bob Barker, "The Price Is Right," logo undulating softly against the glazed donut haze of the ever present piss yellow curtain in the background.
BOB BARKER: Thanks Lisa. After all!
Bob Barker does a dumbfuck armspread and smiles like he's sucking the petrified 2,000-year-old shit out of King Tut's colon.
BOB BARKER: How many people can say their lives are all fun and games?!
CUT TO
Me, sitting in front of the T.V., screaming.
ME: NONE OF US, YOU ASSHOLE. LIFE IS STRUGGLE AND PAIN AND A LOT OF FUCKING WORK. THAT'S WHY YOU'RE A PRICK, BOB BARKER. BECAUSE YOU MAKE STUPID, BANAL COMMENTS UNDERSCORING HOW MUCH OF A SHILL YOU ARE FOR THE STATUS QUO WITHOUT ANY THOUGHT TO THINGS OF RELEVANCE IN THE WORLD ABOUT US. YOU'RE JUST ANOTHER MINDLESS COG IN THE AMERICAN MEDIA MACHINE, MAKING US FEEL MEDICATED AND SEDATED IN OUR COTTON CANDY FANTASY LAND, GOBBLING UP STUPID FASTER THAN YOU CAN SAY FUNNEL CAKE WITH EXTRA POWDERED SUGAR, PLEASE, AT A STATE FAIR.
LIFE IS NOT OKAY. LIFE IS NOT FUN. QUIT TELLING ME I'M HAVING A GOOD TIME WATCHING YOUR SHOW. THE THIRTY YEARS YOU SPENT WORKING ON IT WERE A TRAVESTY. "THE PRICE IS RIGHT," IS THE MOST GOD AWFUL THING TO HAPPEN TO PROGRESS AND INTELLECTUAL ACTIVISM SINCE THE CHRISTIAN RELIGION WAS SQUIRTED OUT OF A GOAT'S ASS IN MACEDONIA.
DUMBASS.
Need advice? Sure you do. E-mail Dr. Hack and he'll set you straight.
Hacktastic Suckage #3
James Patterson
I was going to do a feature on Patterson, but here's a guilty confession: I like his books. Compared to Tom Clancy, they're works of genius.
Honestly, he's got some solid, entertaining yarns. So no Hacktastic Suckage for Patterson. Commercial success doesn't necessarily equate to bad writing, and while I love beating up on successful writers who suck, no point in deconstructing decent writing unjustly.
If any of my readers have other suggestions though, hit me with names in the comments section.
I'm very tempted to do some Jonathan Safran Foer. Among others. Literary fiction to slasher horror zombie Geisha stories set in WWII Japan. Anything goes.
NEEDLESS PERSONAL SIDE NOTE: For whatever reason, Dr. Hack hasn't been able to wrap his head around Sean Lindsay's advice, so he submitted an editorial to the NY Times Op-Ed page yesterday. What can he say? He has a masochistic hankering for rejection a mile wide.
Need advice? Sure you do. E-mail Dr. Hack and he'll set you straight.
Writing Contests
Dear Dr. Hack,
So here's the deal. I've got a novel and it's occurred to me that a good way to capture some attention is by entering contests. The only thing is, I don't know which ones to enter. Any suggestions?
--Rosalyn755
Dear Rosalyn,
Good god, for the love of all that's holy, stay away from writing contests. For the most part they're presided over by a bunch of cut-rate hacks who've weaseled their way into positions of trust and confidence.
By and large, the judges:
A) Have absolutely no writing ability, making their judgment highly suspect.
B) Run around touting their shiny credentials (i.e. an MFA) like it's actually worth the paper it's printed on.
C) Have worse taste than the sisters over at Glimmer Train. And I mean, while we're on the subject, have you ever picked up that god awful rag? It has the worst, let me say that again, the fucking worst, 'literary' fiction on the market force fucked between its pages. Do I really need to say it? I loathe Glimmer Train.
At any rate, Rosa, why the hell are you all hot and bothered to enter a contest? Everyone knows most of them are rigged from the get-go. The judges always have a predetermined favorite; some broke loser they drink beer with every week.
They wait for their drinking buddy to send in his moth eaten manuscript, declare a winner, then go back to jerking off to goat porn or whatever it is they do when they're not 'judging' or 'writing'.
Most of these judges are total assholes who've managed to slime their way into teaching some creative writing program by begging their big-shot daddy, who's already written them off as a failure who'll never make a frickin' red cent anyhow, into buying them a slot heading up a no-name writing course safely out of reach of the family business. And Papa Moneybags usually doesn't complain too much, because stuffing the incompetent progeny's ass away in a dark hole at the ass end of academia is what you'd call a sound financial decision.
The Dr. Hack short answer: Just take your manuscript outside and burn it. You have a better chance at the ashes floating up into the atmosphere, wafting around the globe once or twice, and falling perfectly assembled at the feet of an editor in New York after being magically reconstituted by ice crystals in the sky over Namibian airspace, than you do of winning one of these contests.
Or getting published, period. But that's another rant for another day.
Need advice? Sure you do. E-mail Dr. Hack and he'll set you straight.
So here's the deal. I've got a novel and it's occurred to me that a good way to capture some attention is by entering contests. The only thing is, I don't know which ones to enter. Any suggestions?
--Rosalyn755
Dear Rosalyn,
Good god, for the love of all that's holy, stay away from writing contests. For the most part they're presided over by a bunch of cut-rate hacks who've weaseled their way into positions of trust and confidence.
By and large, the judges:
A) Have absolutely no writing ability, making their judgment highly suspect.
B) Run around touting their shiny credentials (i.e. an MFA) like it's actually worth the paper it's printed on.
C) Have worse taste than the sisters over at Glimmer Train. And I mean, while we're on the subject, have you ever picked up that god awful rag? It has the worst, let me say that again, the fucking worst, 'literary' fiction on the market force fucked between its pages. Do I really need to say it? I loathe Glimmer Train.
At any rate, Rosa, why the hell are you all hot and bothered to enter a contest? Everyone knows most of them are rigged from the get-go. The judges always have a predetermined favorite; some broke loser they drink beer with every week.
They wait for their drinking buddy to send in his moth eaten manuscript, declare a winner, then go back to jerking off to goat porn or whatever it is they do when they're not 'judging' or 'writing'.
Most of these judges are total assholes who've managed to slime their way into teaching some creative writing program by begging their big-shot daddy, who's already written them off as a failure who'll never make a frickin' red cent anyhow, into buying them a slot heading up a no-name writing course safely out of reach of the family business. And Papa Moneybags usually doesn't complain too much, because stuffing the incompetent progeny's ass away in a dark hole at the ass end of academia is what you'd call a sound financial decision.
The Dr. Hack short answer: Just take your manuscript outside and burn it. You have a better chance at the ashes floating up into the atmosphere, wafting around the globe once or twice, and falling perfectly assembled at the feet of an editor in New York after being magically reconstituted by ice crystals in the sky over Namibian airspace, than you do of winning one of these contests.
Or getting published, period. But that's another rant for another day.
Need advice? Sure you do. E-mail Dr. Hack and he'll set you straight.
The Next Big Thing #1
You heard it here first, folks. Dr. Hack is going to postulate every once in awhile on the Next Big Thing in publishing.
He's going to spit out genius publishing ideas, watch them earn lots of contempt and scorn, then re-feature each idea as it actually gets published, heaping scorn back on his readers. The more money other assholes make off his ideas, the more scorn his readers receive.
UPDATE: The best title suggested by a reader for each new TNBT idea gets its own special category. Winner this time: blogless_troll.
Genre:
Non-fiction
Title:
Lie Your Way To Success
Retarded Alternative Malcolm Gladwell Title:
Gray Area: Why Lying Is Good For You
Best Reader Title (blogless_troll):
Truth Stroking: Easy Honesty That Feels Good
Thirty-second pitch:
Lying. We all do it. My contrarian approach to the truth explores the crucial role that falsehood has played in creating and maintaining our culture. Citing research, reports, and interviews with prominent scientists, I delve into the beneficial, trust building power of lies, big and small. From looking at the way individuals lie symbiotically towards a common goal, to effective, harmless scams that serve to advance careers and cement people in positions of power and confidence, I use a scientific foundation to take on one of our biggest societal misconceptions: That lying is always a bad thing.
Platform:
Every-fucking-body.
Need advice? Sure you do. E-mail Dr. Hack and he'll set you straight.
He's going to spit out genius publishing ideas, watch them earn lots of contempt and scorn, then re-feature each idea as it actually gets published, heaping scorn back on his readers. The more money other assholes make off his ideas, the more scorn his readers receive.
UPDATE: The best title suggested by a reader for each new TNBT idea gets its own special category. Winner this time: blogless_troll.
TNBT #1
Genre:
Non-fiction
Title:
Lie Your Way To Success
Retarded Alternative Malcolm Gladwell Title:
Gray Area: Why Lying Is Good For You
Best Reader Title (blogless_troll):
Truth Stroking: Easy Honesty That Feels Good
Thirty-second pitch:
Lying. We all do it. My contrarian approach to the truth explores the crucial role that falsehood has played in creating and maintaining our culture. Citing research, reports, and interviews with prominent scientists, I delve into the beneficial, trust building power of lies, big and small. From looking at the way individuals lie symbiotically towards a common goal, to effective, harmless scams that serve to advance careers and cement people in positions of power and confidence, I use a scientific foundation to take on one of our biggest societal misconceptions: That lying is always a bad thing.
Platform:
Every-fucking-body.
Need advice? Sure you do. E-mail Dr. Hack and he'll set you straight.
Hacktastic Suckage #2
Rainbow Six
Tom Clancy
Tom Clancy
JOHN CLARK HAD MORE TIME IN AIRPLANES THAN most licensed pilots, and he knew the statistics as well as any of them, but he still didn't like the idea of crossing the ocean on a twin-engine airliner.
[What a pussy. I thought Clancy was all about the intrepid hero who did stupid, unbelievable shit with sub-par equipment. Maybe that's later. Let's keep reading.]
Four was the right number of engines, he thought, because losing one meant losing only 25 percent of the aircraft's available power, whereas on this United 777, it meant losing half.
[And losing three meant losing only three quarters of the power. And losing four meant you were fucked. Thanks for spelling out the obvious. I always sucked at math, and you just made me feel like a total failure by chewing it up and regurgitating it down my eeping little reader throat.]
Maybe the presence of his wife, one daughter, and a son-in-law made him a little itchier than usual. No, that wasn't right.
[It was his balls. He'd changed up his normal routine that morning, forgetting to powder his sack with Goldbond.]
He wasn't itchy at all, not about flying anyway. It was just a lingering . . . what?
[I HAVE NO FUCKING CLUE. IT'S AN ITCH, THEN IT'S NOT AN ITCH. THEN IT'S, WHAT? I'M THE READER. DON'T ASK ME RHETORICAL QUESTIONS YOU ASSHOLE. BREAK OUT YOUR THESAURUS IF YOU'RE FEELING CRUNCHED FOR WORDS.]
he asked himself. Next to him, in the window seat Sandy was immersed in the mystery she'd started the day before, while he was trying to concentrate on the current issue of The Economist, and wondering what was putting the cold-air feeling on the back of his neck. He started to look around the cabin for a sign of danger but abruptly stopped himself. There wasn't anything wrong that he could see, and he didn't want to seem like a nervous flyer to the cabin crew. He sipped at his glass of white wine, shook his shoulders, and went back to the article on how peaceful the new world was.
[Wow. Great. Subtle foreshadowing here, Tom. I'm, like, totally clueless about what's coming down the pike.]
Right. He grimaced. Well, yes, he had to admit that things were a hell of a lot better than they'd been for nearly all of his life.
["Right. He grimaced."
What the fuck is this? Oh, yeah. This is Tom Clancy, slapping irrelevant crap into the story after reading through the giant turd he just took all over the reader. Why is this guy grimacing? In the next line he's talking about how much better his life is now. Way to squeeze off random facial expressions, Tom. But yeah, we get it. The grimace, it's very manly. John Whatshisname is all full of grit and determination. What a lazy-ass two-bit fuck fest excuse for character development this is turning into.]
No more swimming out of a submarine to do a collection on a Russian beach, or flying into Tehran to do something the Iranians wouldn't like much, or swimming up a fetid river in North Vietnam to rescue a downed aviator.
[Hm. Stuff they wouldn't like much, like, uh, putting scorpions in their turbans? Shoving cruise missiles up their ass? Or. Oh yeah. HOW ABOUT THREATENING TO INVADE THEIR COUNTRY WHILE SIMULTANEOUSLY EMBROILED IN ANOTHER HOPELESS WAR IN THE SAME REGION. GEE. I CAN'T POSSIBLY IMAGINE WHY THEM EYE-RANIANS IS PISSED.
What a patriotic, nationalistic asshole this protagonist is turning into. I already hate this fucking robot.]
Someday maybe Bob Holtzman would talk him into a book on his career. Problem was; who'd believe it-and would CIA ever allow him to tell his tales except on his own deathbed?
[God I hope not. Come on CIA. Please. Do something right for a change. Lend a helping hand and assassinate this loose end already.]
He was not in a hurry for that, not with a grandchild on the way. Damn.
[Wait for it…wait for it…]
He grimaced,
[BAHAHAHA THERE IT IS. THE GRIMACE.]
unwilling to contemplate that development. Patsy must have caught a silver bullet on their wedding night, and Ding glowed more about it than she did. John looked back to business class-the curtain wasn't in place yet-and there they were, holding hands while the stewardess did the safety lecture. If the airplane hit the water at 400 knots, reach under your seat for the life-preserver and inflate it by pulling . . . he'd heard that one before. The bright yellow life-jackets would make it somewhat easier for search aircraft to find the crash site, and that was about all they were good for.
[Wow. Way to go. You spent a whole fucking shit-brick of a paragraph doing the cliché, "Boy these life preservers and seat belts sure won't do us any good," bit. I hate you, Tom.]
Clark looked around the cabin again. He still felt that draft on his neck.
[No, there's no draft on your neck, idiot. That's the hot, fetid breath of the Good Lord Satan perched behind you on the head rest, panting, waiting for you to die so he can take your sellout hack soul to Hell. Duh.]
Why?
[OH MY GOD STOP ASKING ME QUESTIONS. I DIDN'T PICK UP THIS PIECE OF SHIT BECAUSE I WAS ALL HOT AND BOTHERED FOR A SOVIET STYLE INTERROGATION. FUCK.]
The flight attendant made the rounds, removing his wine glass as the aircraft taxied out to the end of the runway. Her last stop was by Alistair over on the left side of the first-class cabin. Clark caught his eye and got a funny look back as the Brit put his seat back in the upright position. Him, too? Wasn't that something? Neither of the two had ever been accused of nervousness.
[What mindless drones. Like the absence of fear, I don't trust people who's palms don't sweat when there's a god damn gun to their head. But hey, that's just me.]
Alistair Stanley had been a major in the Special Air Service before being permanently seconded to the Secret Intelligence Service. His position had been much like John's-the one you called in to take care of business when the gentler people in the field division got a little too skittish.
[That's right, Tom. Way to glorify a bunch of sociopathic killers while poo-pooing those dirty liberals who "just don't get it," and dig on silly, ridiculous things like peace and the brotherhood of man, putting themselves directly in the path of contempt, scorn, and physical harm from fat, ignorant rednecks while protesting the unjust, thinly veiled holy wars your dumb grunt boys spend all day long instigating under the guise of freedom and democracy.]
Al and John had hit it off right away on a job in Romania, eight years before [where they got a kick out of greasing each other up with the rendered fat of slaughtered villagers, before embarking on glorious voyages into one another's anuses] and the American was pleased to be working with him again on a more regular basis, even if they were both too old now for the fun stuff.
[Fun stuff. Like, you know, setting off claymore mines in crowded marketplaces, or putting a cap in some raghead's ass from two miles away, or, maybe, making necklaces out of human ears?]
Administration wasn't exactly John's idea of what his job should be, but he had to admit he wasn't twenty anymore . . . or thirty . . . or even forty.
[Or even cogent, as you've made painfully aware by all the retarded ellipses.]
A little old to run down alleys and jump over walls. . . . Ding had said that to him only a week before in John's office at Langley, rather more respectfully than usual, since he was trying to make a logical point to the grandfather-presumptive of his first child. What the hell, Clark told himself, it was remarkable enough that he was still alive to gripe about being old-no, not old, older. Not to mention he was respectable now as Director of the new agency.
[Just goes to show: you might be able to buy the respect of your peers with a stupid title during face-to-face meetings, but as soon as you're gone, they're still talking about what a sorry, uptight asshole you really are.]
Director. A polite term for a REMF. But you didn't say "no" to the President, especially if he happened to be your friend.
[No, if you have a brain, you DO say "No," to a President, particularly if he's the half-coherent, drooling mess we have in office right now. You say no, then you kick him in the fucking head until he resigns. It's PRETTY EASY, and there you go, fucking it up again.]
© Tom Clancy 1998
---------------------------------------------
There were, seriously, 13 more pages of this bullshit. In the excerpt. Yes. I couldn't take more than a page. It was so god awful I just about had an aneurysm writing this. This gets the Dr. Hack stamp of Ultimate Aqua Teen Hunger Force Hacktastic Suckage.
Need advice? Sure you do. E-mail Dr. Hack and he'll set you straight.
Here Come The Assholes
Dr. Hack,
I find your blog irresponsible and specious. Who are you to tear down the efforts of hard working writers like Mitch Albom?
Your advice is terrible. Many new writers out there are looking for reliable sources to turn to on the long road to publication, and one of them might stumble on your blog and take something to heart.
We're all in this together, and it wouldn't hurt if you were more positive and encouraging, instead of simply attacking the accomplishments of others. What have YOU ever done? My guess is nothing.
--Random Angry Person
Dear Random Angry Person,
Here's a dose of honesty: I'm no one.
I've never had a book published. My fiction is cut rate, at best. I've never won prestigious awards or accolades, and pretty much anyone who's anybody doesn't know me from a fruit fly. I'm a shriveled, pathetic little loner who sits in a basement all day slapping words together harder than a New York street pimp handles hookers, and I probably won't ever be any great success.
Some more god's honest truth: I don't really hate Mitch Albom. If I dig down far enough into the howling void that exists between my Id and Super Ego, I respect his accomplishment. While I don't personally like what he writes, he connects to a large number of readers, and I appreciate that feat.
You're right. My advice does suck. It's also hilarious, if you're a morally bankrupt sociopath. Obviously you aren't, but hey, there's something for everyone. Go become a Rainbow Person and hand out pamphlets about the beautiful inner light that guides us all on a street corner somewhere if you want to make a difference.
Save yourself the effort of questioning my motives or trying to reform me away from my, admittedly, dubious mission. It won't work.
I diss Mitch Albom because it's fun. It's good for a cheap laugh, like hijacking a plane or putting a flaming paper bag full of dog shit on Old Man Crotchety's lawn. You don't have to enjoy it. I do. That's all that matters.
And guess what? The Internet is a big place. You never have to come back.
My advice: Don't worry your precious little head about new writers who stumble on my page and take my advice. If they're stupid enough to act on half the crap I spew, good. I saved a lot of other hard working, fairly intelligent scribes the worry of competition.
Need advice? Sure you do. E-mail Dr. Hack and he'll set you straight.
I find your blog irresponsible and specious. Who are you to tear down the efforts of hard working writers like Mitch Albom?
Your advice is terrible. Many new writers out there are looking for reliable sources to turn to on the long road to publication, and one of them might stumble on your blog and take something to heart.
We're all in this together, and it wouldn't hurt if you were more positive and encouraging, instead of simply attacking the accomplishments of others. What have YOU ever done? My guess is nothing.
--Random Angry Person
Dear Random Angry Person,
Here's a dose of honesty: I'm no one.
I've never had a book published. My fiction is cut rate, at best. I've never won prestigious awards or accolades, and pretty much anyone who's anybody doesn't know me from a fruit fly. I'm a shriveled, pathetic little loner who sits in a basement all day slapping words together harder than a New York street pimp handles hookers, and I probably won't ever be any great success.
Some more god's honest truth: I don't really hate Mitch Albom. If I dig down far enough into the howling void that exists between my Id and Super Ego, I respect his accomplishment. While I don't personally like what he writes, he connects to a large number of readers, and I appreciate that feat.
You're right. My advice does suck. It's also hilarious, if you're a morally bankrupt sociopath. Obviously you aren't, but hey, there's something for everyone. Go become a Rainbow Person and hand out pamphlets about the beautiful inner light that guides us all on a street corner somewhere if you want to make a difference.
Save yourself the effort of questioning my motives or trying to reform me away from my, admittedly, dubious mission. It won't work.
I diss Mitch Albom because it's fun. It's good for a cheap laugh, like hijacking a plane or putting a flaming paper bag full of dog shit on Old Man Crotchety's lawn. You don't have to enjoy it. I do. That's all that matters.
And guess what? The Internet is a big place. You never have to come back.
My advice: Don't worry your precious little head about new writers who stumble on my page and take my advice. If they're stupid enough to act on half the crap I spew, good. I saved a lot of other hard working, fairly intelligent scribes the worry of competition.
Need advice? Sure you do. E-mail Dr. Hack and he'll set you straight.
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