When folks ask me why I don't write fiction, I can only respond, "What, the real world isn't weird enough for you?" Truly, is there a pressing need to make stuff up? I respectfully submit two very recent examples:
Exhibit A: Desperately holding on to the last remaining shreds of their fame and/or dignity, the members of the 70s rock band, KISS, have opened up a themed coffee house. That's right, you heard me. Yesterday, in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina (?), desperate, aging rockers Paul Stanley and Gene Simmons were on hand for the ribbon cutting and expressed high hopes for their new venture.
According to Paul Stanley, "The KISS Coffeehouse is our way of providing everyone with the buzz of great, quality treats and coffee filled with enough sugar and caffeine to get the party started, and keep it going!"
This from a band second only to the Beatles in gold records and the only thing that remains is quality fucking treats?!? FYI: These include Demon Dark Roast, French Kiss Vanilla and their specially trademarked, Rockuccino!
Swear to god, I'll make a special trip, fly out to SC and order twelve of everything if these guys will only put their make-up back on. I never did forgive them for that.
Exhibit B: Long mistaken for a guy, Harriet the Tortoise took it all in stride during her 176 years. Believed to have been taken from the Galapagos Islands by Charles Darwin in 1835, Harriet finally passed on this week. She was said to be one of the oldest living creatures on the planet and at 330-pounds was fetchingly full-figured. Little known fact: (Sprightly and fiercely competitive in her youth, Harriet was also the inspiration for the famous 'Tortoise and the Hare' fable.)
Er ... okay, I made that last part up but this only proves that I could never make a good Tom Wolfe, Stephen King or even a worthy Jayson Blair.