"So how you doing?" he says.
"229,075." I say. "That's how I'm doing."
"Shit," he says. "Amazon sales rank?"
"Yeah," I say.
"Shit," he says.
"Yeah," I say. "And get a load of this shit."
"What?" he says.
"Frey and his million little pieces?" I say.
"Five. Number fucking five."
"That fuck!" he says.
"I know," I say. "Fuck him. Motherfucker."
"Cocksucker," he says. "Someone needs to really fuck that hack over."
"Like go and break all the bindings on his books!" I say. "The son of a bitch hack."
"His soft covers and his hard covers!" he says.
"That's right," I say, "every book that fucker owns. Totally cracked open at the binding."
"He is such a hack," he says.
"Total fucking hack," I say.
"And did you read that piece of shit book that fucking hack wrote?" he says.
"Christ, was it a piece of shit."
"No!" he says. "It was a million pieces of shit!"
"Brilliant!" I say.
"Goddamn fucking shit," he says.
"Yeah," I say. "Fucking hell."
And so dear reader, now you know the truth about writers. This is what happens to your humble, otherwise eloquent scribes when we are angry, have not our supper or are just feeling batchy in general. We completely loose control of our usual masterful command of the language and we just swear a whole lot.
Although I must admit, there are few things I enjoy more than unchecked swearing with my writer friends. It is masturbatory and satisfying and gleeful.
Confidential to Mr. Frey: I wouldn't swear with you if you begged me, you cocksucking hack. So fuck you very much, Your Royal Assholiness.