Shaunessy and a Literary Death by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview

Edward Drobinski

Copyright © 2020 by Edward Drobinski. All rights reserved.

And furthermore, well within the imagined constraints regarding the precise precision of impressiveness, all spurious and soon to be overstated rights are supposedly reserved in pragmatic futility, and are hereby ludicrously claimed as such; the result of the confines of the US law which provides a modicum of protection to written materiel; strongly encouraging duplication and plagiarism, especially in the lawless bastion called China.

In the US this scurrilous activity is now disciplined through a righteous “Shame on you” from inconsequential writers with nothing worth writing as well as college professors on the US

Federal Government dole with nothing worth writing. This wordy errata is only here, since it may appear as amateurish to leave this blurb out, in full realization that unpunished breaches, excepting the painful, red marks which live on slapped hands for as much time as a China BatPoo II virus, will invariably be the case.

This section is customarily mandated to say in sad ineffectiveness, as the writer is a bit of a wary traditionalist with no desire for punishment, thereby reticent to defy any pointless literary customs, that no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means except those so authorized, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in the course of writing a review; limited to one of the laudatory type. A sincere thanks is extended to those who have allowed this time-saving boilerplate to be copied under a spurious CCO

license. So, there part of it is.

Continuing in the practical doctrine of accepting passivity, the characters and events in this book are fictitious. Understand?

Entirely fictitious. As in untrue, fabricated, invented, made-up (not like in one of those Marilyn Manson “outrageous” struts done in the most unattractive black, leatherette corset known to man, (not the fault of the corset) when performing to a large audience, obviously not his own, that being some weinie awards show televised from Tuxedo Junction), false, pretended, fictional, conjured, and all those other words one calls liars.

If you have been sufficiently cursed to have been previously subjected to any people with similarities, either the book’s

characters, people you have wrongly construed to be analogous to the writer, or Marilyn Manson him or herself, you have the author’s sincerest sympathies. Large charge. Right? However, if you are like any of them, the author invites you to socially distance yourself from him by six zip codes, at least until old Teddy (Lips) Adhominem Beelzebubus at the W.H.O. finds a remedy for some disease, the author most reasonably willing to settle for him not doing his Chinese by way of the remaining repressive elements in Africa best to exacerbate one.

In monochromatic addition and also in monochromatic fact these objectionable characters are so obviously fictitious that any attempt to assert otherwise would have to be the mercenary ploy of some lazy, non-productive crook or crooks, counseled, aided, and abetted by an otherwise unemployed chiseler or chiselers, as yet un-dismissed from the less than diligent bar. Any fancied apparent similarity to real persons is not intended by the author insofar as the author, if one is paying any attention to the flow of the materiel, spuriously alleges that he can conjure every possible archetype and their subdivisions upon subdivisions upon subdivisions ....... and if thought to be detected is either a coincidence or the product of your own sick and troubled imagination; perhaps most practically suggestive of an intensification in treatment and dosage.

Where the names of real places, corporations, institutions, and public figures may be projected onto made up stuff, they are intended to denote only such said made up stuff, not anything presently real as of the time of this entirely conjectural and metaphorical writing. China is merely a passing state of mind or a cheap something one might make one of those overpriced mall available chachkas out of.

I hope that you are one of those blessed with common sense, thereby being one who did not bother to read this professionally and thereby assumed and claimed “expert” semi-obligatory absurdity.

Portions have previously appeared in the following; New Yorker, Esquire, Playboy, New York Times, Ploughshares, Paris Review; and has been most appreciatively summarily rejected within the gloried holes of prestigious Horror Sleaze Trash (HST). Need the writer say more? Dumb question. I don’t care. .... You choose to not believe it, but the author really does not believe that either. If necessary, expletive you with no mask.