by Albino Finch
He was a great writer, plain and simple. He was a great writer because he could take anything, anything at all, and make it interesting to the masses. For instance, one of his best selling novels was 'Wombat Manifesto'. He made wombats reflect all of human life, and it is considered the major literary work of this century.
Every time he had a book published, it was heralded by critics as "the major literary work of the century". Some of them had to add, "I mean it this time".
There was only one problem.
He got his inspiration from very painful, very disfiguring, self-inflicted injuries.
He got his first short story--'A List of Things to do in an Isolation Tank' in Playboy, resulting from him banging his toe on the corner of a wall hard enough to make it swell to five times it's normal size.
When it happened, he said "AListofThingstodoinanIsolationTank--FUCK!"
After that, he suffered under writer's block for two months. After that, he suffered under writers block for two months. He fooled with things while pondering. He picked up a pen, and tapped it idly. One time, he picked up a knife. Then he looked down to discover that he had hacked half-way through his leg. This was when he wrote his first best selling novel, "Famous Canadian Philosophers."
From there on in, everything was downhill.
His room began to look like something left over from the Spanish Inquisition. He had collected 20 thumbscrews, five propane torches, and other household junk which could be used to cause great amounts of pain.
The writer looked worse. He resembled an underfed young mule whose master tended to relieve the days frustrations on his flesh.
The writer died in a most painful manner, which is beyond this author's creativity. The result of his death was "Hey!", in which the purpose of life was revealed.
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