How to Become a Published Author

You've written something very imaginative, and you would like to get it published. What you do is send me...

No, wait. Send NOTHING except your manuscript -- or your previous rejection letters (more about that, below) -- to Lulu, and within two/three weeks you can say, "I are a published author."

Here is what one such author,
Lightning Bug's Butt, told me about the process:

"It's too good to be true. Publication is free! No catch. Just upload a file.

"Lulu prints on demand. They charge per book. You decide on the price....You never pay anything. If you sell a $12 book and it cost Lulu $8, you make 4 bucks. Lulu takes care of printing and shipping."

I know Bug's Butt has sold some copies of his book, "What's Shakin' in the Men's Room," because I bought one.

Another fella paid Lulu $90 bucks for 4 rolls of toilet paper. Printed on the paper are copies of some of the 17 rejections he has gotten for his sci-fi tome. "Take that, Ballantine Books, you buttwipes."

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Here is what I am thinking of sort of inventing to help Make My Pile, which I sore need to finance the eulogy I will buy off the Vatican Pope, Benedict, or the American Pope, Billy Graham. It is called Ol' Hoss's Bide-a-Wee Time Waster.

I make some shiny Bakelite hoops into the form of basketball baskets, and put one of them suck things on the end that you lick so it will stick to the wall. Then I make a dozen little balls, covered with your own family's official Scottish colors!

You may not be Scottish, but if you have enough money, you can get official plaid colors. The Scots are very good at diddling you out of your cash sorting out family colors. With your luck, yours are probably mustard and what can brown do for you, but, what the hell, they're official.

So, you pack this stuff up and shoot some buckets while you're busily not attending one of them boring seminars. And when some bozo asks, "Hey, Bubba, what you doing tonight?," you say, "I'm gonna play with my balls." Or: "I'm practicing shooting my balls over my shoulder."

When you get back to your room, you're still giggling while you write your check to Ol' Hoss.

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My favorite phrase today is gone native. Adj., the wild thing. Def.: Carefully hanging up the $45 Hawaiian shirt you bought on your Maui vacation and never wearing it again.