Malamud? More Like Malpractice of With Writing

There are so many different ways of fucking with me. So many different ways, my friends, that I cannot count them on my hands. There are at least eight ways, and the most rare is actually the very worst. This when I am fucked with by an author.

Allow me to explain at you: Have you ever read a book, novel or tome, or perhaps a stapled pamphlet, which made you unhappy? Made you feel cheated? Made you feel unhappy? 

Is there any doubt that the author has fucked with you? If you are like me, I have no doubt. Which brings me to today's tale of being fucked with. 

One of my favorite movies is called "The Natural," which was directed by Barry Levinson and starred Robert Redford, the man from the American movie classic of the silver screen, "Sneakers." In this movie, a young baseball genius is killed by a crazied fan, but then survives to come back 15 years later and be genius again. Then in the end, he hits a home run that goes over the wall and knocks out the lights so that it rains sparks as he runs to the home plate. This made me feel good about myself when I was a child because I was obsessed with breaking light bulbs.

Well you will only imagine my joyousness when I found the discovery that this movie had been adapted to a book by an author named Bernard Malamud. I was so excited that I ran out and bought a brand-new unsoiled paperback version! I had never heard of this author but I knew won thing: He had great taste in movies!

Let me tell you this. Mr. Malamud has no idea what he is doing. First of all, Robert Redford wasn't even in his book. Second of all, the book is in smaller print than I would prefer. Thirdly of all, and this is the worst part -- worst of all, in the ending there is no home run or satisfying demolishing of light bulbs with a gleeful crack that made me get a boner every time I smashed one with my foster dad's hammer. Instead of this, in the ending of the novel, the man strikes out, is thrown out of the baseball club and ends up crying while talking to a newspaper boy.

Careful readers of this "blog" will not be surprised at my response to this tragedy of justice. Mr. Bernard Malamud went straight to the top of my "Must find out" list, which is written in my head. First, I looked up the telephone number of his book publisher, Harcourt Brace. They answered the telephone and I changed my voice to become very high pitched. "This is Mrs. Malamud, Bernard's mommy," I said, wanting to act like a realistic mother, "Can Bernard come to the telephone? I want him to come home and let me dress him up like a beautiful girl." The phone seemed to see through my clever plan and hung it up. So I looked Mr. Malamud up on an internet, and that's when I came to a shocking discovered that he had already found out!

According to the internet, he had found out over two decades ago, because that was when he was dead. It would seem, then, that I have an ally; an "ally" if you will, in the field of making fuckers find out. I can't help but wonder: who is this hero who is so good that he can make a bad man who just recently published a new book become dead a long time ago? My mind plays boggle at the possibilities. Whoever you are, sir, I salute you with my hand on my forehead, touching horizontally.