MR. MANNERS
with
Dwight Cooter

I'm back, faggots.

Y'all probably remember that I promised to tell you how you can get some with a lady. Unfortunately, I ain't had time to write that as I've been a political prisoner. Y'see, some stinkin' piece of crap (His ex-wife. Editor) called the fuckin' cops on me for a piece of artistic inspiration that I created (Doused ex-wife's lawn with chemicals and set it on fire to burn in the phrase "Skank Bitch Lives Heer" (sic). Ed. again) back in August. And them cops done put me in jail for my expressioning myself (Violating restraining order. Ed. thrice).

Now I'm out and I gotta tell you that I'm a changed man. I did a lot of that pussy soul searching and getting in touch with myself. I loved that getting in touch thing. I even managed to do it twice a couple times. Anyways now that I'm away from them fairies and them weirdos that they put in the pokey... I bet you're wondering why they call it the pokey (No, we're not. Honestly. Ed.)

Where was I? Oh yeah, I spent all of that there time in the jail room and I gots to thinking. "How the fuck do I stay outta this place?" I thought. "What's people what don't get in here got that I ain't got?" (Culture. Respect for authority. All of their teeth. Non-offensive hygeine. Ed.) And then it hit me: money! Y'see, them bastards like your Orville Redenbachers and your Lola Falanas and your Tim McGraws and so on all gots money. I don't. So how do I get money legally that won't get me in jail? Then one day, while I was sitting in the TV room watching... er, I mean, being made to watch Oprah, it hit me. Y'see, she had on one of them big authors. You know, the guys who write books and make all the women oogly from reading. And Oprah was saying, "Oh you sold so many books. Oh you made lots of money." Can you say cootchie? (I think he means "cha-ching". Ed.)

I was gonna write me a book and makes lots of money so's I can stay out of jail.

So that very night, I went to the prison library and did some reading 'cause If you're gonna be a big time author, you gotta know what them big time authors says. I started out with Stephen King but that book had too many words in it. I was wanting to write a book, not train for an Olympic sport. So I tossed that pussy writin' into the garbage and kept on looking. That's when I saw the biographies. I decided then and there that I'd write a biography only it'd be about myself. So it's sort of a what do you call it (Autobiography? Editor), a me-ography.

I got some papers and a pencil and I starts writing down everything I could remember. Seven pages later, I was done. I knew I had me a masterpiece thing especially since I wrote it in my best cursive. It had all of the elements of good writing. It had sex, violence, cussin', drinkin', hell-raisin' and carpentry. This thing was so good that I bet I'd be on Oprah someday and she'd be going "Oh you sold so many books" and "Oh you made lots of money" and I'd be able to tell her to kiss my ass and get naked. When you're rich, you can talk sophisticated like that.

Only one thing stood between me and being a money-gettin' author. I needed a title.

This was a toughie. Try as I might, I don't think I came up with a really good'un. So I thought I'd look at some of the other books in the library. Maybe that'd give me something to think about. So I walked up and down the aisles and that's when I saw a book title that done caught my eye. It was called Sophie's Choice by some pussy faggot called William Styrofoam (Styron! Editor) or something. It was like a total coincidence because my ex-wife is called Sophie and it was her choice to call the cops on me and got me arrested and put in jail. So I took it off the shelf and started to flip through it. To tell you the truth, a lot of the words bored me and the guy's talking got a funny name like Stingo. Who in the Hell names their kid Stingo? It sounded like some un-American crap to me.

So then I looked on the back and it had all these fancy schmancy words like "National Book Award Winner" and "New York Times Best Seller". I don't know about you but that sounds like a whole lot of money. And since I wasn't coming up with a good title, I decided that that would be a damn good one and it would totally piss off the ex-wife because I'd be a millionaire thanks to her name being on the book. Stupid bitch, that'd show her.

Plus, it wouldn't have no guy named Stingo in it. It's a full-bloodied American book, one that you could proudly give to your flag waving momma for Christmas or something special like "Waffle Day" at the nursing home.

Now you can order your very own copy of Sophie's Choice by me, Dwight Cooter, author, for the very really reasonable price of a hundred bucks. Each copy is lovin'ly photocopied by me on the local library's Xerox machine. And because you're readers of this Ken Socrates thing, I'll even photocopy it in color. But that's gonna cost you another twenty-five bucks. Just place your order through this website. Hurry up 'cause I can't wait to be rich.

P.S. Oh yeah, I was told that I had to make good on my promise on how to get some for a woman. What usually works for me is to get her drunk. Milwaukee's Best works really good. And before she passes out, make sure you get her back to your trailer. Then just say something romantic like, "Y'wanna do it?". If she's the stubborn or unconcious kind, just give her a tweak on the tit and she'll be ready for Freddy.

Good luck, you pussy faggots.