Sometimes all it takes to sell a turd sandwich to a waif who just finished gorging on lasagna is the right word or phrase. This is precisely why you need to run out and buy Words That Sell by Richard Bayan. Basically it's a brief primer on writing to sell products and services, followed by categorized chapters of synonyms and phrases proven to catch the potential buyer's attention. I don't want to short Mr. Bayan any royalties, so I won't give the whole book away, but I'd like to cite a few examples from a few chapters if I may.

Teasers

• Free!
• Claim your free ______ (e.g. Claim your free cock!)
• Dated material
• A _____ has been reserved in your name (e.g. A cock has been reserved in your name)
• An urgent message for ______ (e.g. An urgent message for dicks)
• Your ______ is about to expire (e.g. Your penis is about to expire)

Opening With a Challenge

• _______ like a professional.
• _______ like an expert.
• _______ like a millionaire.

For example, one could combine the these three: Fuck like a professional; suck like an expert; ride a bicycle like a millionaire.

Convenient

• _____ from anywhere in your house. (e.g. Shit from anywhere in your house)
• automates your ____ (e.g. automates your shit)
• the ____ you need, whenever you need it (e.g. the shit you need, whenever you need it)
• Isn't it time you treated yourself to (e.g. Isn't it time you treated yourself to a heroin enema?)

Good-looking

• luminous
• perfect
• fetching
• killer _____ (e.g. killer funbags)

Money-making

• ____ your way to wealth! (e.g. Fuck your way to wealth!)
• Turn your ____ into gold! (e.g. Turn your shit into gold!)

Sexy

• sassy
• lean
• swaying
• shamelessly _______ (e.g. shamelessly exhausted)
• sinfully ______ (e.g. a sinfully balanced checking account)

Small / Less

• _____ in your pocket (e.g. shit in your pocket)
• slips easily into your _____ (e.g. slips easily into your ass)
• won't crowd your _____ (e.g. won't crowd your balls)

The Call To Action

• _____ is just a phone call away (e.g. A tranny hooker is just a phone call away)
• Ask your ______ dealer. (e.g. Ask your meth dealer)

Obviously I couldn't help but have some fun with the mad lib style examples in the book, but with these lists, as well as a section about commonly misspelled words and another with distillations of bloated phrasing, this book could serve as a handy desktop reference. Even if you aren't trying to sell a shit sandwich to a satiated supermodel.

A few days ago you may have wondered what I was doing with a "print" of a painting of this guy from his book. I found the book during our fateful and disgusting outing to Unique Thrift Store in St Paul last weekend. It's a children's book with simple no-cook recipes. I plan on presenting a few of them with no order whatsoever.

For example, you can make an Oregon Sandwich with ingredients including butter, tomatoes, and mayon naise. That's cool because mayon is my favorite type of naise.


Oregon sandwiches are perfect for eating while wearing mittens. But make sure you bring some pickle relish out in the woods when you're a-lumberjackin'. And put the lid back on when you're done or a squirrel will take a dump in it.


Believe it or not, this one's called a Nut Sandwich. Step 1: nut all over some bread. Step 2: eat it. See how creamy and white it is?


This one's a Kentucky Mint Julep, Jr, or as I like to call it, a Ken-fucky Pimp Julep, Jr.


More mayon-style naise and a wedge of cheese with chest hair.


What?


For the Chocolate Milk Shake, you need 3/4 cup of milk, 1 scoop of chocolate ice cream in a Chinese takeout box, and 1 tablespoon of choco-style late syrup.


For Japanese Stereotype Salad, you're encouraged to dress up like a geisha and say offensive things like "ah so." This salad includes ginger shaped like a dildo and more ginger in an Altoids box. Fuck n' suck!


For Kidney Bean Salad, you need Kidney Beans, a tomato, a hemorrhoid, some 5W-30, Vin brand Egar, and two robots from Dr Who.


Looking for the lettuce? It's in your pants pocket, you dirty slob. You will not be making me a sandwich with your filthy trouser lettuce, I can assure you of that.


This one is for -- I shit you not -- Egg Punch. It's a punch made primarily of raw eggs. This was written in the days before encouraging young children to significantly increase their risk of contracting salmonella. Strangely the recipe was accompanied by this illustration of Peter Pan shaking a jar of his own urine.


Donut Delight is best made with sugar made by a gentleman named Confec Tioners. What a weird fucking name.


This one was for a recipe called Dinner Sandwich, a triple decker mammoth so big that you'll have to measure your mouth first to make sure you can fit the sandwich and a huge cock in there at the same time. Say ahhhhhhh!


For Uruguayan Salad, you find yourself a white guy dressed up like a stereotypical "lazy" Mexican. I know it's a salad from Uruguay, but this racist asshole thinks all Latinos are Mexican.


I hate it when my yog hurts. P.S. Robots! Pyoo pyoo!


This recipe is called Xylophone Dip because they had to find something that started with 'x.' But the label seems to indicate that it was originally called O Sole Mio Dip, a creamy mess that you eat with chopsticks. Most chicks eat my creamy mess with a straw. Mmmm! Filchy!


Apple Salad includes rat-covered raisins. And seriously, what is with this guy and the fucking mayonnaise -- sorry, Mayon-style Naise? No wonder that generation grew up to be a nation of quivering hot lard.


Zodiac Treats are made with a whole loaf of bread Pea-Style Nut Butter, Marm-Style Alade, and a jar of Jak, which is raspberry-flavored wizard ejaculate. "Hey! You aren't doing something magical in there, are you?" Why, yes I am. Very magical.


I'm not sure what this chick is swooning or fainting over. The Honey Butter? The weight of the severely overcooked pancakes or giant cookies or whatever those nasty looking frisbees are? Or maybe she just spotted the size of her son's mammoth tie rod fully exposed under the table. Either way, check out the rockin' cans on this broad. I'll suck the flowers right off those milfen chemise puppets.


Grapefruit Goodness forces my to make another "style" joke. *sigh* Mara-Style Schino Cherries. God, I hate myself.


Hee hee heeeee! Honk! Honk!


Yoghurt And Fruit is not misspelled, but the spelling pisses me off nonetheless. And apparently you can use either sliced peaches or halved peaches and a tawny nutsack.


If this little bastard launches into "Margaritaville" or "Cheeseburger in Paradise," I'm going to smash that ukulele upside his jaw.


Whatcha gonna do with that banana, little girl? Yeah, you're naughty. I call it a salmon-flavored banana slit. Yeah, I meant to say slit.

The late chef Felipe Rojas-Lombardi is often credited as bringing the concept of tapas to America. Included in his 70s-era children's book The A-To-Z No-Cook Cookbook, was a portrait of chef Rojas-Lombardi. I thought this warm, calming portrait needed to be framed and hung in the IT Department to bring a touch of class where previously there was none.

Part 2 in a provocative series examining your health in the eyes of Reader's Digest and the societal impacts of you shutting the fuck up and reading this post.

A healthy work environment includes an uncluttered workspace, ergonomically arranged computer equipment, and a few personal effects like flowers, plants, and a collar with about 25 square feet of frill.


When writing a "lifetime" guide to health, be sure to include as many elements as possible to date your illustrative photos, such as a popular band name and recording technology that will be all but defunct within 10 years.


Something isn't quite right with this photo, but I can't put my finger on it.


Much better.


Once you retire, you should consider taking up a hobby to keep your mind sharp. This couple passes the time by torturing young backpackers kidnapped from a Slovakian hostel.


Often, young people who have distinctly different outlooks than their peers become outcasts. This boy's classmates have shunned him for his repeated attempts to rape them.


When the cleaning lady found Mrs Schuller's body in the foyer, it was clear that Mr Schuller had discovered her poorly concealed affair with the junior varsity track team. Could it have been the photos on MySpace?


The cleaning lady unwittingly contaminated the crime scene by undressing Mrs Schuller's corpse and crying on it.


Oh dear. Apparently Mr Schuller retired to the master bedroom and shot himself, as well.

Ok, seriously, cleaning lady, what is your fucking problem? Call 911!


Steven Seagal neck snap! Kee-yahhhh!


I don't think it's happening tonight, buddy.


Early Scientologists and a primitive E-Meter.


"Alright, I'm going to show you a series of videos in which I appear in various stages of undress and arousal. But it's ok, I'm a doctor."


"Ok, you're blood pressure's good. So what did you think of the videos?"


[from inside] "Hey, you didn't go out on the roof, did you? You still have 3 more hours of video to go!"

Aside from a bunch of booby cream, another treasure I found at Valu Thrift at Sun Ray in St Paul on Saturday was a 1984 book about personal health from Reader's Digest. If there is an authority I trust when it comes to my health, it's Reader's Digest. I also rely on the Saturday Evening Post for investment advice and get ideas for spicing up my sex life from Collier's.

Note that this is the complete manual. Not a partial one. However, it also says it is a lifetime guide. The fact that I bought it for a dollar at a thrift store seems to indicate that its claims are false and/or its previous owner is now dead.


On the inside title page, we find a primary-colored Stephen King and his family hiking through long grass on a cloudy Maine day. Mr. King has chastened himself by securing his fitness trousers shut with a padlock. Or maybe it's to keep out the Lyme disease-ridden deer ticks that his wife and children will be picking from their scalps and genitals.


Clearly they stole this photo from the spandex section of the 1983 LaBelle's Christmas catalog. If she hikes those bottoms up any further, she can use them as a sports bra.


Women like to compare fat rolls, blubber, waddles, and pooches. But do they have to do it in line at Subway?


Women, to measure your fitness, place a yard stick on the floor and line it up with the bottom of your feet. Spread your legs open as wide as you can and measure the distance. Looks like this lady's going to need a lot more yoga before the spring DP party at the yacht club.


An important key to your child's future mental health is reigning in his wild dreams with realistic expectations. This young lad is so excited to grow up to be a doctor that he leaps in the air for joy. Luckily his parents are there to hold him down. "Not so fast, Johnny Repeats-a-Grade!"


For some reason, one section of the book gives a time line of historical figures. Here we discover that Walt Disney may have created Mickey Mouse, but he couldn't draw so much as a circle to save his life. "ARRGHH! Why do these topless dancers keep turning out like short pants-wearing mice???"


Somehow the cut rate illustrator for Reader's Digest managed to make Eleanor Roosevelt even more hideously repulsive.


"EVERYBODY DOWN ON THE GROUND! The first motherfucker at this pool to try to be a hero gets their head blown off! Now put the chlorine in the bag."


One of the women in this photo wants to bury her face in the other's vagina. And by "one" I mean "both" and by "vagina" I mean, "I'm totally jerking off to this photo right now."


This guy took the Shriners Fun Run way too seriously.


Her partner is so tired of her squeals of delight every time balls are flying at her face.


In the 1980s, it was believed that exercising while your computer farted into your air supply was good for the "sanguine humours."


When participating in the "Buns of Steel for Men" class at the Y, try not to make your leering too obvious.


"Hellooooo! Vulnerable, fit man here! Anyone back there? Anyone?"


"Strut, pout, put it out, that's what you want from me!"


1. "I'm strong."
2. "Yay."


NordicTrack's Bosom Squeezer 36DD was the top selling home fitness system of 1984.


This diagram shows how easy it would be to rip your spine from your back should you wear that sweater vest again.


Always wear bib overalls while painting boxes. ALWAYS!


"I give up."


Uh... you do realize you're in the middle of a photo shoot, don't you? There's a box of tissue right next to you for crying out loud!


"Just appreciating my perm."


Start your daily meditation by attempting to kill your enemies with your mind.


Ugh... well, at least clean your pus off my mirror when you're done squeezing.


Now put a little peanut butter down there. Oh my! Is that the dog?


If you're going to work your way up to me, you better try three fingers, lady.


Ok, where do you want me to aim when I finish?


Got it. I'd close your eyes if I were you. I've been doing prostate exercises.


To be continued...

OMG, ya'll! I just finished reading this book called The Da Vinci Code by Dan Brown. Have you heard of it? It is totally da bomb and shit! There's a secret about Jesus and the Mona Lisa and there's codes and letters and a fat dude in a mansion! It takes place in like Paris and London and...um...Sheboygan. There's a naked, bloody albino, and some references to ladies' hoo hoos!

I was picking up some groceries and a bite to eat at Byerly's over lunch when I noticed that they were stocking Dummies books with the magazines and candy at the checkout lines. There were titles like Online Dating for Dummies and Pregnancy for Dummies, except these weren't regular paperback books. No semi-rigid heavy stock paper cover. It was almost exactly like a copy of Reader's Digest in terms of size and paper quality. More like a small magazine than a book. So if they're not paperback books, what are they? Shittyback? Crapback?

I guess it's another sign of the disposable products we Americans crave. Paper plates, plastic cups and cutlery, disposable disinfecting wipes, laundry detergent wipes, toilet brushes with disposable heads, and why not books.

Next: Disposable one-use vibrators and butt plugs!

So after finally buying Diablo Cody's memoir, Candy Girl: A Year in the Life of an Unlikely Stripper, I sat down and read it cover to cover today. If you don’t know who Diablo Cody is or have never read her blog, the Pussy Ranch, do yourself a favor go there NOW! Obviously I am a fan since one of my permalinks to the right is to the PR. Yes, it is often as raunchy as the name implies, and there is on rare occasion some relatively tame nudity, so if you are reading this while at work, consider yourself warned. For example, at the time of this writing, the first thing you see upon loading her site is a photoshopped image of her giving the finger from behind the wheel of a power boat as faux topless versions of Beyonce, Jenna Elfman, and J-Lo look on, showering each other with streams of lactation. Meanwhile, a dead manatee floats in a watery cloud of blood in their wake. Out fucking standing.

Diablo Cody (we now know her disappointingly pedestrian maiden name to be Brook Busey—not that you’d expect it to be Vagwise Snatchpuss) acquired internet notoriety in 2003 and 2004 as she anonymously blogged her almost impromptu foray into the world of exotic dancing, which eventually led to a stint working a peep show booth at a local smut shop called Sex World and rounding it out with a phone sex job. The money enabled her and her then-boyfriend / now-husband to put down payments on a car and a house, and the blog led to an associate editor gig at the local alt weekly City Pages, the book deal, selling the script for a movie currently in preproduction, and a two script deal with Warner Brothers. She’s also currently working on a sitcom pilot set in Minneapolis, hoping it will be picked up by UPN.

As a relatively recent recruit to the Cody fanwagon (I started reading her blog on the City Pages website last summer), I was disappointed to learn that her original pre-City Pages version of Pussy Ranch is no longer online. However, through the magic of the Internet Archive, last week I was able to skim through the vast majority of her original postings from beginning to end, often coming dangerously close to spewing fountains of Diet Mountain Dew across my computer screen as I guffawed out loud. I fully intend to go back and read them word for word now that I’ve finished the book. The old school Pussy Ranch was a jawdroppingly frank account of her year burning her way through the Minneapolis sex industry, delivered in machine gun bursts of disarming, sarcastic humor that is one part cerebral to two parts locker room pottymouth. Meanwhile, her steadfastly devoted boyfriend Jon, often mentioned with such euphorically loving adoration that I practically wanted to switch teams and sleep with the guy myself, supports her every step of the way.

As memoir, Candy Girl stands on its own quite well. However, I wish I had saved reading any of the original Pussy Ranch until after I had read the book. The blog entries have a more lurid appeal because given the forum, they are written with the crisp detail of immediate memories being channeled from Cody's brain to the keyboard. Having them fresh in my head made the book seem slightly watered down and tame in comparison.

This is certainly no fault of Cody’s. A blog is a diary, a choppy snapshot in time of the author’s life. A book needs to keep the narrative flowing. And flow it did. It may not have had the same gut-busting comedic impact or shock value of her original writings, but it was a page turner to be certain. Trust me, if you can get my ADD ass to sit still for an entire afternoon and read your book beginning to end, you are one hell of a writer.

If you were one of the original followers of Diablo Cody’s travails, I have a feeling that Candy Girl will be a fond trip down memory lane and that you’ll get a charge out of holding concrete evidence of the success of your favorite former secret stripper. You may even vaguely recognize passages lifted nearly verbatim from blog entries and probably won’t be quite as thrown off as I was by minor changes to details and quotations, since I had literally read them less than 48 hours prior to reading the book.

If you have never read anything from Diablo Cody, I am going to stop short of imploring you to immediately run out to pick up Candy Girl at the nearest bookstore or order it from Amazon. Here is my suggestion—go and skim through her current blog. If her humor is your cup of tea, the book will sell itself to you, and you won’t even have to pay a cover fee or buy it a $9 soft drink. Then you can save yourself my mistake, and read her original Pussy Ranch site AFTER you finish the book. You will appreciate the juicier morsels all the more, including details of her courtship with Jon and her transition from stripping to the legitimate writing world.

Overall, I give this one an A-, with negligible points deducted for starting out with overzealous and awkwardly thick verbiage (yes, I realize that is the pot calling the kettle black) and for a mildly disappointing epilogue that seemed to need some fleshing out.