I immediately noticed how careful he was with his words. He was trying to get me to commit to going with him on this trip without disclosing what the actual task was. He was talking up the road trip because he knew how I loved to pile in the car and just set out on some kind of adventure. He was playing the free food angle.
At this point in the life of Dead Rabbits Books, I am assuming that finding product to sell is at the forefront of your focus. Sell your company to the writers reading this interview. Why should they choose to submit their work to Dead Rabbits? I love that. I think publishers should have to answer that question, because they demand so much of the writers that submit to them.
For my first interview I chose an author. W.B. Welch is an emerging horror author. Her story, and her take on the climate of publishing is fascinating. Her candor is also very refreshing. I sent questions to a few people I was curious about. A few responded. None of them, however, were as honest as W.B. Welch (and consequently, they will not be published because of it). I hope you enjoy the interview as much as I did.
Not one person in the media has said the only thing that really matters. The one important statement I have been looking for? Ok. Brace for it. Every President since Ronald Reagan has had to endure impeachment hearings. I’ll let that hang a moment.
Have you ever had the pleasure of visiting south Louisiana? I have. And let me begin by telling you that the shit they show you on TV is utter nonsense. Somehow, TV and movie people always manage to frame the southern part of Louisiana as this mysterious place of voodoo, romance, and fun. The ivy- and moss-covered buildings contain the promise of adventure. The cobblestoned streets are steeped in history. New Orleans, in particular, is painted with this generous brush.
Depression is responsible for their weight gain. Depression is the reason they didn’t get that promotion. Depression is why the fucking lawn isn’t mowed. To these people, depression is their crutch. And they despise me, all while needing me, for not being as fucked up as they are.
Robert Kraft, one of the most successful businessmen in the United States, needed a blowjob. That’s the story. The man is 77 years-old. He is short. He is kind of troll-like. He is crusty and old, bruh! But on top of all of that, he is very recognizable.
Chad was out of shape. Simply put, he looked like a baby with chest hair. His sagging man tits and bulging gut already damp with sweat was not attractive. But what about this man’s supposedly massive member? His rock hard 4 ¾ inches of man flesh can only be described as pale, engorged disappointment.
Posting again already? Yup. Because the struggle is so fucking real. Fast food. Hotels. Pissing me off and making me think about food I love to cook/eat.
Daydreaming about a nice pot of Adobo bubbling happily in my Dutch Oven. The smell of Jasmine rice cooking in the rice cooker.
God bless the Philippines though. No seriously. Filipino food is fucking great. I understand your skepticism. One of those countries over there considers abandoned bird nest a delicacy. And in...