But there is a beauty to their hunger, expressed by vicious chomping motions and the ripping of flesh. Billows of pink foam.
For best viewing, tip a live cow into the tank.
Your new friend will love you forever.
Especially with more cows.
Always more cows.
'Dang', she thought as she read what she had written. 'That's one hell of a way to start a love story'. The category of women's fiction would never recover from this assault. If chick lit revolved around a tender relationship at the centre of the tale, a story of a terminally frustrated graduate student who raised Amazonian killer fish would definitely blow some minds.
It would be, she knew, the perfect answer to 'Fifty Shades of Grey'.
Just as perverse, and without the odious necking.
Better character development, too.
She suspected it might be hard to find a publisher. Unless she provided photographs of the romantic author herself, feeding the piranhas.
A vacation in South America might be in order.
With a bit of luck they sold cows there.
She had, on the recommendation of one of her friends, purchased a copy of Fifty Shades of Grey. And almost immediately regretted it. The scenes of sex were unimaginative, stilted, and boring. Though her own sex-life had long been entirely hypothetical, and now involved guilty fantasies late at night after three or four shots of Jim Beam in front of the television, she just knew that real women did NOT have any interest in masking tape, gags, and rope. Men like Christian Grey were pigs! And women who subjected themselves to reading about his tortuous sexual escapades with a person who was clearly soft in the head were voyeurs.
No book, she felt, was more likely to lead to extremely ill-advised sexual choices and incidental brutality than this turgid tome. She had never read anything so badly written. Even the Twilight series had seemed deep and meaningful in comparison. Both the author, and the main character, needed a good sound thrashing with a belt. The only slight redeeming feature was the general air of decadence and latent homosexuality; she strongly suspected that if E.L. James was not a viciously demented drag-queen, she no doubt was a committed masochist. And quite possibly a fruit-fly.
Well, she had no proof, these were all possibilities.
She herself would not write such crap. Her novel would be about a self-confident individual with a penchant for carnivorous animals, who despised the macho versus femmy role-models of popular culture.
A woman capable of bashing an arrogant rich man over the head with an attaché case, then rolling the bastard for his Rolex and traveller's cheques while he bled to death in the gutter.
Lastly kicking the corpse right in the double breasts, above the vest.
Just to make sure the coroner's office had something.
Real men do NOT wear pin-stripes.
Neither do real women.
Real women breed piranhas.
If she ever graduated college, she hoped to buy a ranch in the foothills, and have a humongous tank built. The neighbors would gradually loose their cattle, as she raided the surrounding country-side in ever widening circles.
She might even dally with a man. Eventually.
A man with good taste and sound intelligence, who would appreciate her for the intellectual predator that she was.
Often described as cute, even adorable, in reality she was a ferocious beast who clawed her way through bad books faster than a man could use a shovel —- a skill that allowed her to dig up the rodents of women's literature and eat them. Rather like a badger.
[http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:AmericanBadger.JPG]
AFTER WORD
Describing that odious novel by E.L. James as treacly and parasitic is an understatement. The words 'tortuous' and 'clunky' also come to mind. It is not garbage, however, as garbage is compostable. This book should be buried in a salt mine alongside radioactive waste.
I am keen to invite your feedback.
Please be so kind as to spell-check it first.
Thank you.
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NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
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