Science fiction without the social justice

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green alien

John Spaceman stared at the alien’s green breasts. He could use his eyeballs to look at whatever he wanted; this was space, where men could do as they pleased. He stared at her titties something fierce. She was not an allegory for The Other or anything like that, just your basic sexy-lady-but-green-type alien.

“Farewell, John Spaceman, savior of this particular galaxy where everyone lives lifestyles suspiciously similar to middle-class white Americans in the 1950s,” purred the alien, who John thought of as a temptress, even though she was also extremely virginal. In fact, this species of alien could only have sex with one man ever, and John Spaceman was that man. “Thank you for saving us from that other spacefaring culture that was metaphor for communism and fascism at the same time, somehow.”

“No problem, babe,” said John Spaceman, making a cool space-gesture to indicate how roguish yet traditionally manly he was.

He got into his rocket ship. It was long and hard, like his penis, but John Spaceman didn’t think about it in a gay way. He had a totally platonic relationship with his rocket ship.

“Farewell, galaxy full of cultures that are definitely very original and different and not based on the author’s limited worldview,” he said, and shifted into warp drive. “I’m off to explore the rest of the known universe, where everyone speaks English, and pretty much everyone looks human except for that one race of cockroach-things nobody likes.”

Down the novel-hole

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Hey, remember when I said I wrote two novels last year, and they were both big old messes? I’m diving into the rewrite of Novel #1, and that means I’m taking a step back from social media. I’ll be putting up some pictures from my nerdy adventures (it’s con season!), but other than that, posting will be light around here until this sucker is done.

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Clean lines from dirty books

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There’s a new app in town, and it’s cleaning up your filthy ebooks by inserting new, inoffensive words in the place of the author’s dirty potty mouth. Authors are righteously fucking furious; just look at what all these classic scenes would look like without the language that made them goddamn brilliant:

portnoy

Gosh darn,” said Conte, totally unable to help himself when the sums involved vanished over his mental horizon. “Beg pardon, Dona Sofia.”
“You should.” She drained her glass of non-alcoholic grape juice in one quick unladylike gulp. “Your calculations are off. This merits a triple gosh darn at least.”
― Scott Lynch, The Gentlemen Legitimately-Born Children series

*

This nicholas was risen for to read the bible,
And thoughte he wolde amenden al the jape;
He sholde talk about our lord and savior Jesus Christ er that he scape.
And up the wyndowe dide he hastily,
And out his collection of religious pamphlets he putteth pryvely
He had a whole handful of wholesome and appropriate literature;
And therwith spak this clerk, this absolon,
Spek, sweete bryd, I noot nat where thou art.
This nicholas discussed the bible with him,
And they had a very pleasant chat about the nature of divinity,
Which completely convinced absolon of the need for salvation;
And he decided to attend a bible studies group,
So they shook hands politely.

– Geoffrey Chaucer, The Canterbury Tales, The Miller’s Totally Appropriate Story for Young Children

*

Brabantio: What nice guy art thou?

Iago: I am one, sir, that comes to tell you your daughter
and the Moor are now making a cake for your birthday.

Brabantio: Well isn’t that lovely.

– William Shakespeare, Othello, A Play in which Nothing Bad Happens

*

And Julia’s voice was lost, except in sighs,

Until too late for useful conversation;

The tears were gushing from her gentle eyes,

I wish indeed they had not had occasion,

But who, alas! can love, and then be wise?

Not that remorse did not oppose temptation;

A little still she strove, and much repented

And whispering ‘Sex before marriage is wrong‘—showed him her purity ring.

– Lord Byron, Don Jon’s Platonic Female Friends

*

Well, where is this right mind on that afternoon I came home from school to find my mother out of the house, and our refrigerator stocked with a big purplish piece of raw liver? I believe that I have already confessed to the piece of liver that I bought in a butcher shop and stored according to proper food-safety methods on the way to a bar mitzvah lesson. Well, I wish to make a clean story of it, Your Holiness. That—she—it—wasn’t my first time cooking this particular dish. The first time I cooked a wholesome meal with liver was in the privacy of my own home, fried in a skillet in the kitchen at three-thirty-and then had again on the end of a fork, at five thirty, along with the other members of that loving and healthy family of mine.

“So. Now you know the best meal I have ever made. I cooked my own family’s dinner.”

– Phillip Roth, Portnoy’s Family Cookbook