book reviews and excerpts

“A Canine’s Guide to the Good Life” by Donna Cavanagh – Book Review

Posted on May 1, 2015 by pauldelancey

Canine'sGuide

Dogs steal our hearts. Dogs take control of our lives. In A Canine’s Guide to the Good Life, Donna Cavanagh, The Empress of Comedy, tells us how. Well actually, she got her dogs to relate their plans for world domination to her, but even understanding Dog is an amazing achievement.

And if you’re a dog, Donna and her dogs show you how to get a good owner. (Always let the human think she’s the owner.)

Then learn: how to order at a fast-food drive through, proper etiquette for vomiting, how to wear a seat belt, ways to look cool in a bandana, proper behavior in bed, techniques for spitting on windows, the best ways to greet people, and how to be polite. This useful book even doubles as a primer for raising teenagers.

Donna Cavanagh writes humor with a deft, light touch. I enjoyed A Canine’s Guide to the Good Life very much and recommend it highly.

See her book on Amazon.

– Paul De Lancey, reviewer

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Spotlight on Roz Warren – Author of “Our Bodies, Our Shelves”

Posted on April 21, 2015 by pauldelancey

rozfrontcoverfinalExcerpt from Lewd In The Library

 

The Sports Illustrated Swimsuit issue just came out, and all over America librarians are flipping through its pages and rolling their eyes.

The swimsuit issue, which isn’t actually about swimwear at all, but, is, instead, about young, beautifully shaped female bodies, is the single most stolen item in any public library. Shelve it in your magazine section like any other periodical? It’ll vanish. Like magic. Always. But hide it behind the Reference Desk and make your patrons sign it out?

Is that just good sense? Or is it censorship?

Every year, the swimsuit issue gets a bit more lascivious — the bikinis skimpier, the poses more provocative, the expressions on the models’ faces less about “Look at my strong, healthy body!” and more about “Do me! Now! Right here on the beach!”

This year’s cover shows three stunning young woman, topless, their backs to the camera, smiling happily at the viewer over their shoulders, their gorgeous rumps more revealed than concealed by itty wisps of fabric.

Is this really what we want to display on our library’s magazine rack?

Of course, the collection of my suburban Philadelphia library contains all three books in the Fifty Shades of Grey trilogy, and numerous other examples of sexy contemporary “literature.” (And the sex scenes in the romances we circulate are hot hot hot.)

We librarians tend to be fans of the First Amendment. I’m a card-carrying member of the ACLU myself. I even subscribe to Playboy — for the articles and interviews, of course.

What I’m saying is that I’m all for pornography.

But there’s a time and a place for porn. I wasn’t sure this was the time or the place. I’m in charge of processing and then shelving incoming magazines. Before putting this one out on the floor, I decided to consult my supervisor.

Carol and I perused the issue together.

“OMG!” “Would you look at that?” “Yikes!” “Do you even see a swimsuit in this picture?” “Gosh!” “I hope her mother never sees that shot.”

This was pretty hot stuff.

We were inclined to stash it behind the reference desk, along with the other stuff that patrons like to steal. The Tuesday “Science” section of The New York Times. The Morningstar weekly stock market updates.

But first, we brought the issue to the head of the library.

Our boss took a look, then said, “Just shelve it. Don’t treat it differently than any other magazine. It’s no worse than what they can see every day on television.”

That woman sure loves the First Amendment.

And, of course, the truth is that we’re living in an era where anyone, of any age, can view all the naked tushies they want, whenever they want, online.
“Put a security tag on it, of course,” she added. Although we all know how easy it is to remove those tags.

Before I shelved it, my co-workers passed it around. The consensus? We weren’t exactly shocked. But we weren’t exactly thrilled either.

We’re all middle-aged women. Many of us are grandmas. Still, in our heyday, we too were hot chicks. But you can be a hot chick and not want to share that aspect of yourself with the entire world. The kind of young woman who is drawn to library work is rarely the kind of young woman who ends up spilling out of her bikini on the cover of a magazine.

We librarians don’t tend to let it all hang out.

Which means that we are, increasingly, at odds with our culture. Modesty? How retro is that? Dignity? Forget about it.

Still, we proudly stand behind the First Amendment. Perhaps, to a fault. And while I wasn’t exactly elated about adding that little touch of smarm to our quiet reading room, I went ahead and shelved the swimsuit issue, just like any other magazine.

Within 24 hours, it was gone.

 

Biography

 

rozauthorphoto

Roz Warren, “the world’s funniest librarian,” writes forThe New York Times, The Funny Times, The Christian Science Monitor, The Jewish Forward and The Huffington Post. And she‘s been featured on the Today Show. (Twice!) Roz is the editor of the ground-breaking Women’s Glib humor collections, including titles like The Best Contemporary Women’s Humor, Men Are From Detroit, Women Are From Paris and When Cats Talk Back. Our Bodies, Our Shelves is her thirteenth humor book. Years ago, Roz left the practice of law to take a job at her local public library “because I was tired of making so damn much money.” She has no regrets.

Website: www.rosalindWarren.com
Connect with her on Facebook and Twitter

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Spotlight on Amy Gettinger – Author of “Roll With The Punches”

Posted on April 16, 2015 by pauldelancey

AmyCover

Excerpt from Roll with the Punches

Marian poured tea. “So who else wrote something this week?”

“Not me.” Jackie nudged me. “But Rhonda, back to your new long-lunch hottie. How big is his bat? Can I use him for my next hero? Pitcher, catcher, pirate or man about town?”

Yvette smiled up from my book. “Our little Rhonda’s a pirate’s treasure?”

I had to endure patronizing from Yvette now? “Look, there is no he.” I looked to James for support, but the traitor was cozily reading my book over Yvette’s shoulder. I narrowed my eyes at Jackie. “Hey. Has anyone tried the new George Bonner and Jackie Shawn Memorial Tollway yet?”

Grins all around.

I sighed. “Okay. Fine. My long lunches have all been spent in Sports of Call, looking for ska-sheets.”

Crap. I’d almost said skates. I was skirting disaster here. This group knew James played street hockey and roller hockey. What they didn’t know was that I had recently run across my old inline skates from high school, when Harley and I had practiced speed skating against my brothers, who had competed statewide. We’d been good. Now, I’d started doing some outdoor skating practice to fight flab, and it was a blast, just wicked fun. It would be even more fun when James and I went rollerblading at Venice Beach, my dream date. But Venice Beach was a drive. The roller rink was closer, so at Sports of Call, I’d just splurged on a gorgeous new pair of quad roller skates, which were slower but maneuvered better for indoor skating. If this bunch found out about my skating practice or my new skates, they’d kid both James and me to death and surely wreck my chances with him.

“Yeah, sheets,” I said, decisively.

“Sheets for him? Scarlet silk or black satin?” Jackie drawled, mistaking my blush for an admission of guilt.

“Us library nerds sleep on parchment,” I said. “Uh. Care to read some pages, George?”

“Rhonda, you don’t go to Sports of Call for sheets,” Marian said.

I checked my watch. “Look, if no one else wrote anything new, I’ll see ya.” I rose and started to push past Jackie, who blocked my way.

“But you might go there to visit a boyfriend,” Jackie trilled. “Is he that guy at the ski counter? Or a mountain climber? No. I know. A surfer. Smoking hot in a Speedo with washboard abs. With your lifesaving skills, Rhonda, you could administer CPR daily.”

George sang under his breath, “Help me, Rhonda.”

Jackie chimed in. “Help, help me …”

“Rhonda!” they all yelled at the tops of their lungs. My lips could have pressed pennies as the whole group broke into a bawdy Beach Boys cacophony, even James joining in, completely off-key. Only Yvette stayed mum, frown lines deepening in her forehead as she kept reading my magnum opus.

Oh, to hell with my short skirt. I hoisted a knee to crawl right over Jackie just as Yvette broke in, in piercing tones. “Excuse me! Sit down, Rhonda! This is exactly why this group needs a leader.”

The group ignored her, singing even louder.

Yvette yelled, “Has anyone read the new Reynard Jackson book, Memory Wars?”

Jackson was a reclusive genius who had rocketed to the bestseller list three years before, with four new titles out per year since then. His whereabouts were a state secret. His work was slick, predictable, shallow, uneven, and unaccountably beloved by millions of readers.

I sat down and squinched my eyes shut. If I didn’t look at the group, maybe they’d all stop bawling at me to get her out of their hearts.

Over their cackles and bawls, Yvette shrilled, “People! This is disturbing. I read constantly for my job, but this is really bad.” She pointed at my manuscript like it was rat droppings.

“Could we get a muzzle for her?” I said to Jackie, who elbowed me hard.

The room sullenly quieted down. This woman was such a wet blanket.

Yvette smiled in triumph. “You see, I’ve already read this exact story. Last week. In a published work. The chubby strawberry-blond main character here?” She held up my manuscript. “Well, Reynard Jackson’s latest protagonist is a chubby strawberry-blond—”

“Oh, strawberry-blond characters are a dime a dozen,” George said, still feeling his oats. “And Rhonda always writes ’em chubby … Takes one to know—Ouch!”

Marian of the steel-toed pumps smiled.

Yvette slammed my manuscript down on the table. “But wait. Jackson’s strawberry-blonde neuroscientist, Dr. Amelia Steele, discovers a memory serum that will cure not only her great aunt’s Alzheimer’s, but also her handsome, shell-shocked army captain with amnesia who can only be saved by knowing the truth about his dark past.”

I looked up, my stomach sinking.

She went on. “Dr. Steele and Captain Russell Bonner work against an evil drug company, Sinbad Pharmaceuticals. It sells expensive anti-Alzheimer’s drugs and will stop at nothing to keep Dr. Steele’s permanent cure for the disease off the market. The heroes nearly get killed in the process of saving old people’s memories everywhere.”

Silence in the room.

Jackie looked sick. “Oh, my God. If you change the names, that’s Rhonda’s book!”

AmyPhoto

Author bio

Amy Gettinger, once a part-time community college ESL instructor, lives and writes in her dream house in Orange County, California underneath a eucalyptus windrow full of parrots and crows with her husband and her two piteous poodles. For fun, she walks the beach cliff path at Laguna Beach. She also writes and produces Reader’s Theater plays for nonagenarians in a local assisted living facility. Her blog Raucous Eucalyptus, Piteous Poodles, is at amygettinger.com.

Her book is available on Amazon.

 

 

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Spotlight on Tameri Etherton, Author of “The Stones of Kaldaar (Song of the Swords Book One)”

Posted on March 25, 2015 by pauldelancey

 

The Stones of Kaldaar (Song of the Swords Book One)

 

 An excerpt from Chapter 7

TamericCover

 

Her backside rebelled when she pulled herself into the saddle. She was fairly certain she had blisters in places that weren’t polite to mention.

“How much longer do you think we’ll be riding?” She adjusted her position, finding little relief.

“At least a sennight.” Rhoane said before clucking his stallion to join the others.

A week. She groaned and kicked her mare forward. With all of its power, she didn’t understand why the people of Aelinae employed primitive resources. The least they could do was invent comfortable saddles.

As they moved through the meadow, her stomach growled, and she put a hand over her abdomen. When Faelara gave her a concerned look, Rhoane held back his stallion to hand her a pouch containing dried bread and cheese, along with meat from their meal the previous night.

Growing discontent settled in Taryn’s thoughts. She didn’t like depending on Rhoane, or anyone, for food, for shelter, for anything. Fields and grasslands sprawled in every direction, an unfamiliar landscape with unknown horrors. Until she knew her way around Aelinae, she would be exactly that—dependent on him or one of the others for her survival. The depressing thought weighed heavily on her.

Faelara moved beside her, saying in her gentle voice, “Do you see those trees over there?” She pointed in the distance. “That’s the southernmost border of the Narthvier. And over there,” she indicated to their left, “is the Spine of Ohlin. Those mountains stretch all the way from the Summer Seas to the Temple of Ardyn in the far north.”

At the sound of the familiar name, Taryn shot Rhoane a glance. “Is that where we’re going, to the temple?”

“No, darling,” Faelara looked away from the mountains toward the north, “we’re headed to Ravenwood, the country home of Duke Anje. He sent an urgent message, so we’re going to offer assistance.”

“Is that what you do? Wander around helping people?”

“It does seem that we travel much more than I’d like. The world is a curious place lately, and we go where we’re needed. Today, that just happens to be a day’s ride north.” Faelara reached over to pat Taryn’s leg. “This will give you a chance to see some of the countryside. When we get to Ravenwood, you’ll meet Hayden, Duke Anje’s son and heir. Very pleasant boy and your age.”

“Which age is that?” Taryn mumbled, distracted by the shadow that had tormented her for most of the previous day. She’d hoped it was a fluke, but its presence once again set her on edge. Each time she tried to look for it, the shadow would dissipate, but if she kept her focus straight ahead, she was able to keep the blot in her peripheral vision. Whoever or whatever it was, it was keeping pace with them but at a discreet distance.

Faelara gave her a strange look. “The only one you are.”

“Which is thirty-five in a few weeks?”

“Yes, that’s right. You and Hayden were born two days apart.”

Taryn studied her riding companion. Faelara wore a deep-green riding jacket with matching hat and split skirt that allowed her to sit astride her horse. Taryn admired how graceful she looked upon her mare and shuddered at how she must appear to the regal woman. Dirt smeared, disheveled, disoriented. Never before had she given a thought to how she looked to others, but being near the elegant woman made her self-conscious. Grimacing at the state of her hands, she picked at a cuticle, tearing the skin.

Faelara took her hand in her own. “Let’s see if we can’t get you more familiar with your surroundings. Make you feel more at home.”

The tone of her voice, and slight upturn to her lips, suggested she knew where Taryn had been all those years, but she dared not confirm her suspicions. Rhoane had warned her to keep her past hidden and that’s what she would do.

She listened with quiet intensity as Faelara explained the topography of the land they traveled. They rode through meadows of thick grasses and past fields gone fallow, the pace faster than the day before as Rhoane had promised. Every so often Rhoane would range ahead to scan the area or Baehlon would hang back to ride behind them, but neither seemed to see the shadow. After a while, she stopped looking for the flicker at the edge of her vision.

With every rut or mud-filled road they crossed, more knots formed in her shoulders and backside. Her knees were numb from gripping Cynda, and she was certain she’d forever lost all feeling in her hands from clutching the reins too tightly. They stopped briefly for a midday meal and to rest the horses but were back in the saddle much too soon. Myrddin pushed them faster as the afternoon wore on. When dark tendrils stretched across the road and the sun’s rays slanted beyond the trees through dusk, Baehlon turned them down a tree lined drive. Too weary to see straight, Taryn barely registered their location until Faelara touched her shoulder.

“Ravenwood,” she whispered.

Taryn jerked in her saddle and straightened her posture, her exhaustion a nagging memory. Ravenwood meant a bed. Possibly a shower. Definitely a break from the pounding of riding.

She followed Fae’s outstretched hand and whistled low in her throat. “That’s a bloody castle.”

“Manor house.”

“Whatever.” Taryn took in the turreted corners and delicate battlements. Though built for show, it still managed to appear imposing perched upon a hill. The group made their way up the gravel road, past landscaped borders and decorative hedges.

Too busy admiring the scenery, Taryn didn’t notice Myrddin had slowed, his hand outstretched in a silent signal to the others, until she was even with his horse. He placed a finger to his lips, his glare boring into her.

Rhoane and Baehlon drew their swords.

Nervous energy rippled over her in waves, making her palms moist, her throat dry.

Instinctively, Taryn moved closer to Faelara. Gravel crunched with each hoof their horses placed on the ground. Myrddin reined in his gelding, and the others followed, quietly dismounting. Within several yards of the manor, Taryn paused in her step.

The front door stood wide-open, without a soul in sight.

Taryn tapped Faelara’s arm, but the woman shook her head and motioned to the manor. Streaks of ShantiMari circled everyone except Baehlon and Taryn, which did not instill her with confidence.

Myrddin felt around the doorway and then stepped into the house. The men moved from room to room looking for signs of life or a struggle, finding neither. With each new room, Taryn’s heart thumped harder, threatening to burst from her chest.

They moved up the stairs to the first landing, and Myrddin motioned for her to stay with Faelara while the men crept up and down the hallways, checking each room. Halfway up the next flight of stairs, Taryn’s pendant burned against her skin. She stifled a gasp, causing Rhoane to look back. When she pointed to her cynfar, his eyes narrowed for a moment, and then he continued up the stairs, saying nothing. They stopped on the upper landing, where, again, the men crept down the hall.

Taryn moved away from Faelara to follow Rhoane. When he stepped from an empty room and nearly collided with her, he frowned, but she put a finger to her lips, motioning for him to follow.

At the last door, Taryn stopped. “In here.”

Rhoane flinched when he touched the wood. He waited until the others joined them before slowly opening the door. Taryn was last to enter the dimly lit bedchamber. Furniture crowded the large room, and in the center rested a huge four-poster bed with heavy curtains tied to the posts. Beside the bed, a man sat hunched, the sound of his soft cries filling the space. Faelara and Myrddin went to him while Baehlon and Rhoane continued to check the perimeter. A fetid odor like the scent of pork left out overlong assaulted her senses.

Help me, a voice whispered.

Taryn spun around to see who had spoken, but no one was near. She stepped around a chair and covered her mouth to keep from crying out at the ghastly sight before her. Atop the bed, uncovered but clothed, lay a young man. A glowing sword hung suspended above his heart.

The stench increased the closer she moved to the bed. It infiltrated her nostrils, her throat, her mind until she felt as if maggots crawled through her thoughts. Bile burned from her belly to her tongue. She gagged, dizzy all of a sudden.

No time. Please, the voice begged.

“Who are you?” she whispered aloud to the empty air.

Bed. Help. Now. Desperation choked the voice.

Lavender strands of ShantiMari enclosed the man’s body, with the thinnest of threads holding the sword aloft. Even as she watched, the sword moved a fraction closer to piercing his shirt. “Oh my God.”

Hurry.

His anguish permeated her mind to her very core. She swallowed down the bile and took a deep, calming breath. “What do you want from me?”

Sword, the voice rasped. There was no pain in his tone, just a sense of panic and fear.

She had to do something before the sword broke free. Rhoane prowled the opposite side of the room, his focus away from her.

“Hang on.” Before she could change her mind, she sprinted toward the bed. When she’d nearly reached it, she jumped as high as she could, kicking out. A cacophony roared through her mind when her foot connected with the metal. Shards of ShantiMari tangled around her leg, and a burning sensation shot up from her heel. Rhoane stepped out of the way a split second before she crashed to the floor, the sword landing with a heavy clang beside her.

Time slowed as the ringing continued. Vomit roiled in her gut. Images, flashes of light and dark, tore at her thoughts. Shouts and cries echoed in her mind. Julieta’s screams. Kaldaar’s banishment. Rykoto’s laughter as he raped Julieta.

Rhoane was speaking to her, helping her up. She stared at his face, focused on that one reality. A gasp from the bed pulled her attention back to the young man and the threads of ShantiMari tightening around him. He couldn’t breathe. She moved without thought and grabbed the sword that lay at her feet.

When she touched the handle, a shock ran up her arm. Not like the one in her leg, which felt as though it were on fire, but a soothing feeling, as if the handle welcomed her touch. The voices stopped. Her mind cleared. Her stomach calmed. Gripping the hilt with both hands, she raised the sword and brought it down over the man, slicing the lavender cords.

“Taryn, no!” Faelara cried out. Amber streaks of Mari shot toward her, but they were blocked by Rhoane’s Shanti.

“Hold, Faelara.” Rhoane’s voice was like iron. “She will not harm him.”

Taryn ignored the strange tingling of her skin as she cut the threads. When they were too small for the sword, she tossed it aside and broke apart the remaining bits with her fingers, digging through them until the man inhaled and his chest heaved with the rush of air.

The stink of death lingered. “Open the windows,” Taryn commanded. Baehlon moved with silent swiftness, opening first one and then all of the windows, letting in the last of the sun’s rays and fresh, pure air.

After a few minutes of coughing and sputtering, the man took several deep breaths. Taryn stepped back, allowing Faelara to fuss over him. Myrddin’s scowl was her last sight before everything went black.

 

Author’s BioTameriPic

 

Rocker of sparkly tiaras, friend of dragons, and lover of all things sexy, Tameri Etherton leaves a trail of glitter in her wake as she creates and conquers new worlds and the villains who inhabit them. When not masquerading as a mom and writer, rumor has it she travels to far off places, drinking tea and finding inspiration for her kickass heroines—and the rogues who steal their hearts—with her own Prince Charming by her side.

 

Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00N6I4YZ0

 

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Spotlight on John Chamberlin, Author of “Above the Fries”

Posted on December 23, 2014 by pauldelancey

 

Who’s At Lunch For Your Lunchtime Errands?

jagoff

SCENARIO:

You’re at work. Lunch hour is coming up, and you are going to run an errand during lunch hour. Today, it involves finally getting the time to have that blood test stuff done that your doctor prescribed 4 1/2 weeks ago. So, 11:55 AM comes, you shut down your personal Facebook account early, and you head on over to this particular lab to get the blood draw done. You get there, and you see the sign in the pic above!!!!

C’mon! Does the WHOLE office really have to shut down at lunch time???

Do ya think they all go to McDonalds?  Then all come back, realize there are no customers, so they decide to check their own LDL’s, HDL’s, HTML’s, EIEIO’s and LMNOP’s?

I think the person who decided Noon was a good time for all of the phlebotomists to take lunch was probably unsuccessful at their previous consulting jobs:

Suggesting grocery stores be closed on the weekends

Church closings on Sundays

And “POP ONLY” sales four hours before all NFL, NBA, MBL and NHL games.

Imagine if I would have actually wasted my 5 minute-vending-machine-stride-gum-lunch-break to get to this office, or worse, someone wasted their coveted SMOKE BREAK to get there!!!!

Hey, ABCD- phlebotomers, Dr. Lou Stool (my G.I. doctor) said I eat too much fast food and ordered me to get my blood tested. You’re closed before work. You’re closed AFTER work and you’re closed during our lunch break.

Here’s what I have determined out of all of this…you lab people have lunch with bank tellers and postal employees every day. I know this cuz, when I’ve had other errands to run at lunch…get some stamps, cash a check I received as a gift…GUESS WHO ELSE IS AT LUNCH DURING MY LUNCH HOUR??

As a heads up, I’m getting a job at your favorite office-delivery pizza place. And every time you call in for a lunchtime delivery, I’m gonna simply say, “Thanks for your order. I’ll just drop those pizzas off when it’s convenient for me…about 2am on my way home from work,” Ya Jagoffs!

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Author Bio

Born and raised in the Pittsburgh area, loyal denizen John Chamberlin has carved out a niche writing and talking about Jagoffs, i.e. stupid politicians, awful sports officials, dumb criminals, bad drivers, ignorant people and so on. In his effort to teach the world about the meaning of the term Jagoff, Chamberlin has launched a campaign to add the word to the dictionary. His efforts have received support from Pittsburgh celebrities, local media and the Mayor. When he is not trying to alter vocabulary as we know it, Chamberlin writes with passion about  Pittsburgh and brings to life the color of “The Steel City” on his blog http://www.YaJagoff.com. He has developed a cadre of worldwide “YaJagoff Catchers” who submit their own Jagoff finds which he posts on his site. When not writing on his own blog, Chamberlin writes for the popular online magazine, HumorOutcasts.com. He also speaks about social media and its importance in developing a brand–even a Jagoff brand.

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Book Review of Mary Farr’s “Never Say Neigh”

Posted on January 27, 2014 by pauldelancey

Saint Paul, Minn.  Author Mary I. Farr has devoted the past 30 years to exploring the worlds of hope, healing and humor. Today she has noahhorsemerged these life essentials into a wildly funny and gently inspirational book, Never Say Neigh. The book recently won honors in The Paris Book Festival, The Great Midwest Book Festival and the Animals, Animals, Animals Book Festival.

A retired hospital chaplain with plenty of wisdom under her belt and a lifelong passion for horses, Farr chose an unusual writing partner for her award-winning book—her American quarter horse, Noah Vail. Even his name says he has a funny bone of his own.

“This is a comical horse,” Farr says. “He’s just the kind of character I imagined could ‘talk’ to people about life and its many lessons, but in a welcoming way. I figured why not use him as a humorous spiritual corrective in an often noisy world of gridlock.”

Never Say Neigh encompasses a year on the road with Noah and his partner Madam, sometimes referred to as The Management. Compassion is the order of the day for Noah. He eschews violence, prejudice and polarized politics – all with a generous dose of levity and fun.

“It’s hard to argue with a horse,” Farr says. “Noah, as the book’s narrator, makes the most difficult topics approachable for readers. He also opines on a good deal of human behavior.”

Even Noah’s blogs have won him acclaim as an Erma Bombeck Writer’s Workshop Humor Writer of the Month. And he’s nothing if not a well-rounded author. He keeps an active Twitter account, a Facebook page with more than 101,000 fans, and a blog. Fans can also find him on YouTube.

Never Say Neigh is available at Amazon in paperback and in Kindle.

– Donna Cavanagh

I am pleased to have the witty and brilliant Donna Cavanaugh do a guest blog today. I shall return shortly.

– Paul De Lancey, The Comic Chef

My cookbook, Following Good Food Around the World, with its 180 wonderful recipes, my newest novel, Do Lutheran Hunks Eat Mushrooms, a hilarious apocalyptic thriller, and all my other books, are available on amazon.com.

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Beneficial Murders, A Novel

Posted on December 8, 2013 by pauldelancey

29 DAYS LEFT

THIS CHAPTER BROUGHT TO YOU BY FANTASY BANKINGTM

“INVESTING YOUR FANTASY MILLIONS WISELY”

“Rudolph, instead of sending coal to the naughty people for Christmas, I’ll be launching ICBMs. They’ll be heading south in ten minutes.” I slapped my knee. “Haw! Everything is south from here.”
Rudolph’s red nose glowed bright. “Sir, we have nuclear missiles? Nuclear missiles? How did we acquire nuclear missiles?”
“My furry friend, what do you think my elves build in their workshop every January and February? They do a good job. Every one of my missiles can strike anywhere in the world.” My hands traced a blossoming mushroom cloud.
Rudolph shook his antlers. “No sir, don’t do it. I take great pride in guiding your sleigh every year. You know how you love giving gifts to all the nice kids. Maybe you are just having bi-polar issues.”
“No,” I said, “I’ve been taking my meds.”
“Santa, Sir, things are not so bad,” said Rudolph, “you shouldn’t be so cranky.”
“So cranky. So cranky,” I said. “I have great reason to be cranky. The Elves are on strike, demanding I stop outsourcing jobs to India. I might have to move to the South Pole because of global warming. Mrs. Claus has gone to Peru to get in touch with her inner self and Prancer has just come out of the closet.”
Rudolph nuzzled me. “Still, that’s no reason to nuke the world.”
I sighed. “No, my friend, that’s not the real reason. I used to put “caught being good” marks by most people’s names whenever I spied on them. Now people for whatever reason–-drinking skim milk maybe–-design perpetually jamming printers and fire surface-to-air missiles at anything that flies by. Why, last Christmas, I couldn’t even fly my sleigh through the night skies without a little F-16 escort from my friends at NORAD.”
“Oh,” said Rudolph, “I think you’re exaggerating. I’ll bet there a lot more nice people than naughty.”
“Oh yeah,” I said. I turned on my Little JohnnyTM computer and brought up my Santa’s Naughty or NiceTM software. I pointed toward the monitor. “Look, look. Over four billion people are naughty and fewer than two billion are nice.”
Rudolph did peruse the screen. Indeed, many more naughty acts were being caught than good ones by my extensive global network of satellites.
As Rudolph said nothing, I continued. “If people want any more presents from me, heck, if they want merely not to be nuked, I’m going to need to find at least as many nice folks as naughty by Christmas Eve. But I doubt if I can. That’s why I’ve set the launch times.”
“Won’t you miss the milk and cookies that the good little boys and girls will give?” asked Rudolph. “Can you really break their little hearts? Substituting nuclear winter for seasonal snow?”
I sighed. “If only two billion more people were nicer. You know, gave to charities, opened doors for little old ladies, read a story to a toddler, or brushed their teeth, I’d cancel the launches.”
Rudolph thought for a minute. “It’s a bit much to expect that many people to change so quickly. How about a test case? How about if just one chosen person changes the world for the better by Christmas Eve, would you stop the launching of the nuclear missiles?”
“For the sake of that one person, I would,” I said.
“Whom will you choose?”
“Sam Mollusk,” I said. “He’s kin.”
Rudolph raised the deer equivalent of an eyebrow. “Sir, does Sam have to be good to make the whole world better? Couldn’t he just buy more Li’l PathfinderTM cookies? Or maybe eliminate a bit of evil here and there?”
I slapped my knee. “Rudolph, you’re a genius. Killing naughty people would make the world a nicer place. Yes my friend, if Sam Mollusk kills enough naughty people I promise you there will be a happy, missile-free Christmas after all.”
Rudolph coughed. “I wasn’t proposing such a solution.”
“Ho! Ho! Ho! You’re being too modest, my red-nosed friend. If only people would help out their friends and neighbors with a little beneficial murder here and there.”
Rudolph shook his furry head. “Sir, how do you know Sam Mollusk will commit these beneficial murders?”
I beamed with pride. “He’s a good kid.”
“But sir, lots of good kids never commit murders of any sort. How are you going to get him started?”
“Rudolph, he comes from the same bloodline as I do. The Claus line has always wanted to bring joy to the world, sometimes by giving, like me up to now, and sometimes by killing, like my kin Wyatt Earp.
“Besides, my furry friend, Sam Mollusk drives a tiny Prius. Trust me, he’s ready to kill.”
I, Santa, pushed the button to watch coverage from my satellites orbiting over Poway, California. I said to my monitor, “Ah, Mr. Mollusk, I will be following your every move. You have thirty days to commit thirty beneficial murders. Will you do it?”
Rudolph smiled at me. “If I get a nice cup of OvaltineTM will you make it twenty-nine days to accomplish twenty-nine beneficial murders? That will give him to Christmas Eve.”
I, Santa, laughed. “All right my friend, I’m such a softie. Twenty nine in twenty nine it is.”

29 FIENDISH DAYS LEFT

THOSE BASTARD AL QAEDAS

“Sabaaaaah el kheir, Al Qaeda! (Goooood morning, Al Qaeda!) Hi, I’m your radio host, Yusef Al Din, the Master of Mayhem, the Duke of Destruction, bringing your favorite songs of hate from the ‘50s and ‘60s till prayer time. But first the news.

“The three blind judges of Abiraz have chosen Sarani Said of Egypt to be this year’s Miss Burka. In the likely event of her martyrdom, Halmai’i Barrani of Libya will take over.
“Fiendish sources in Afghanistan tell of budgetary concerns in Al Qaeda cells worldwide. Says Hoshni Al Fiendi, CEO of Al Qaeda, ‘We are running out of funds. What with the worldwide downturn and lingering image problems, it’s been a bad year for donations. Even our TV marathons and falafel bakes aren’t raising much. Our cash flow problems are so bad that we face a hostile takeover by TupperwareTM on December 24.’
“We righteous warriors cannot let this happen. Unless we raise enough Dinars by that time we shall unleash the Great Unleashing where every terrorist will be sent on a suicide bombing mission to a single, spectacular target.
“We have been resisting the Great Unleashing because frankly, it is suicidal. Or the Great Satan might wipe out all humanity with retaliatory nuclear strikes. And if we all die, what will happen to Al Qaeda? Gone the way of five-cent falafel. So, give all you can, right away.
“And now a word from our sponsor, Abd al-Tijana, CFO of Al Qaeda.”
“Unemployed? Tired of a dead-end job? Well, come on over to Al Qaeda Central. Our recent spate of suicide bombings means openings at the ground level. Must have references.
“Do you hunger for small-scale explosions at suburban food courts? Or is nuclear war with the Great Satan more your style? Well, make your way to Poway Al Qaeda, a place where bloodshed is always on the menu.”
“Take care. Al youm herr barrah. (It’s hot outside.)”

 

– Paul De Lancey, The Comic Chef

My cookbook, Following Good Food Around the World, with its 180 wonderful recipes, my newest novel, Do Lutheran Hunks Eat Mushrooms, a hilarious apocalyptic thriller, and all my other books, are available on amazon.com.

 

Categories: book reviews and excerpts, humor | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

*Bump Off Your Enemies* Ebook Anthology Will Soon Be Released

Posted on March 20, 2013 by pauldelancey

bumpcov

Categories: book reviews and excerpts, humor | Tags: , , , , , , | 2 Comments

Corporate Sponsorship Minimum for *Bump Off Your Enemies* Literary Event

Posted on March 3, 2013 by pauldelancey

I just want all corporations clamoring to sponsor the *Bump Off Your Enemies* literary event to know we will turn down no sponsorship offers of  $100,000 or more. Even lutefisk vendors.

Heads to Heinz. We have 57 people attending. What an incredible tie in for you company. You’re welcome.

Come join the *Bump Off Your Enemies* tsunami.

*Bump Off Your Enemies*

Authors Candace C. Bowen and Paul R. De Lancey invite you to fictionally “Bump Off” your enemies in 200 words or fewer.
Enemies do not have to be specific people. They can be types of people such as telemarketers or people who block aisles in supermarkets.
Two winners will be crowned Kingpin/Queenpin. Winning entries with a short bio of the winners will be posted on Facebook, Paul De Lancey’s blogsite (www.pauldelancey.com), his website (www.lordsoffun.com), and Candace C. Bowen’s website (www.knightseries.com). Good Luck!

– Paul De Lancey, The Comic Chef

My cookbook, Following Good Food Around the World, with its 180 wonderful recipes, my newest novel, Do Lutheran Hunks Eat Mushrooms, a hilarious apocalyptic thriller, and all my other books, are available on amazon.com.

Categories: book reviews and excerpts, humor | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

*Bump Off Your Enemies* Fictional-Writing Contest’s Inspirational Post

Posted on February 23, 2013 by pauldelancey

Authors Candace C. Bowen and Paul R. De Lancey invite you to fictionally “Bump Off” your enemies in 200 words or fewer.  The great event takes place on March 15.

Enemies do not have to be specific people. They can be types of people such as telemarketers or people who block aisles in supermarkets.
Two winners will be crowned Kingpin/Queenpin. Winning entries with a short bio of the winners will be posted on Facebook, Paul De Lancey’s website (www.pauldelancey.com), and Candace C. Bowen’s website (www.knightseries.com). Good Luck!

To get to this event, log on to Facebook and type *Bump Off Your Enemies*
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– Paul De Lancey, The Comic Chef

My cookbook, Following Good Food Around the World, with its 180 wonderful recipes, my newest novel, Do Lutheran Hunks Eat Mushrooms, a hilarious apocalyptic thriller, and all my other books, are available on amazon.com.

Categories: book reviews and excerpts, Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

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