The Worst Novel Ever written
A man in a trailer park writes the worst novel in history. A publishing company mistakenly publishes a half-million copies of it. There is only one solution: convince the world that this is the greatest novel in the history of publishing!
Combine this with an incompetent who is released from prison, an ex-girlfriend with a taste for revenge, a useless corporate president, an angry Scotsman, a boy who is just trying to study, and some terrible mocha blend coffees and you have The Worst Novel Ever Written...
Thanks for all the emails -- rest assured the book is coming, and should be released in the next couple of months. It's with two editors as we speak... in the meantime since you found the secret site, here's a synopsis and a first-draft, unedited excerpt to enjoy in the meantime. But skip the prologue. You don't want to read a prologue. Nobody reads prologues! Skip down the page right to Chapter One -- it starts in a prison. Why are you still reading? Come on, man, a prison is an exciting setting! Oh, alright, but be warned, the prologue sucks -- after all, it's The Worst Novel Ever Written:
The Worst Prologue Ever Written
T his was, quite possibly, the worst novel ever written. Never in history had words been linked at such odd angles. Words fought with other words, punctuation was violated and spelling defiled. Grammar fled for its life, collapsed, and broke down in tears. It should not have been possible, since even random text fits some of the time, but page by page, word for word, the author thrashed and beat the English language like a frothing Vietnamese racehorse. The words raced across the page, fleeing in terror from their abusive partners. For years afterwards editors would debate how a feat such as this was even accomplished.
In addition to endless phrases assaulting the reader, it had one other important weakness: from priests to prison inmates, those subjected to it found that it was extraordinarily offensive. It was generously described as "dirty sheets of scrap paper, bound.” Another reviewer wrote, “forget a thousand monkeys: if a single, crazed, feces-throwing monkey had a typewriter thrown back at him, and he beat himself to death with it, this would be the result.” It was described (generously) as "the worst pile of dung that had ever been flung onto a dirty sheet of scrap paper."
It was a love story.
A gentleman known as "Tonto" Woodriff birthed this magnum opus. He dreamt that he would christen his first romance novel, "Touching Others: A Love Story” and it would be carried to his adoring public on a tiny golden chariot towed through the sky by a thousand white doves.
But then Tonto decided that “Touching Others: A Love Story” might be open to misinterpretation. He thought hard. This novel was about the eternal complexity of the shades of emotion that all people share, between persons conflicted and entwined, their souls burning with shared passion and the desires that pertain to all people. So “It’s All About Me!:A Love Story” was hastily christened and instead of doves and a chariot he used a prepaid recycled envelope.
And thus the worst novel ever written was thrown in the face of a shocked and appalled Jane Q. Public.
Bernie had waited six years for a drink.
He gathered his belongings from the shelf and put them in a box. His cell door buzzed open and the guards escorted him down C corridor to a cacophony of jeers and yelling. A hand thrust out through the bars towards him, “You ass! I will kill your family, Bernie!” Bernie knew the voice and pretended to ignore it.
From a different cell a terrifying giant of an inmate named Hightower gnawed at the bars, “Bernie! Come here, Bernie, I’ve got something for you!” He held one hand behind his back.
Bernie faced forward and kept walking.
Up ahead, Greasy Gene waved a massive shiv through the bars, “Come here you skinny bastard! You screwed us -- we’ll screw you! Come here! I’ll cut you a third butt cheek!”
Greasy Gene’s cell door buzzed open and a half-dozen guards rushed in and beat the shiv from him. As Bernie and his escorts walked on the din slowly faded behind him.
Oscar slowly mopped the corridor floor. His age-spotted, wrinkled skin and grey hair gave him away as the oldest inmate in the prison. “Hey, just a second, Bern,” he leaned his mop against the wall and pulled Bernie aside, “Some of the guys took up a collection for you. Everybody in the unit chipped in, and I mean everybody. It’s over $500. Not an easy amount to achieve in the pen. We’ve even budgeted a few bucks for a cake.”
Bernie smiled. Not everybody hated him.
“Yup. First one who kills you gets the money and a cake.”
Bernie’s face went white. Two guards pulled him away by his arms.