Thursday, 12 November 2009

Shit Writing Avoidance Therapy (SWAT)


The man got out of bed. He walked to his cupboard and put on his dressing gown.


The man leapt out of bed. He rushed over to his cupboard and thrust on his dressing gown, desperate to start the day.

Over the top:

The man was blasted from his snoozy-woozy-beddy-byes and rocketed onto his feet for a day of action action action! He hurled on his superslinkysoft dressing gown and howled with happiness! Owww-oooo-oo-oo-ooooo!


The man opened his eyes. He then stretched his arms and legs, twisted his torso, placed his left hand onto the mattress to support him as he raised his body from the recumbent position, then placed his feet on the floor and yawned. He then stood upright by placing pressure on his legs and winching his upper body skyward, using his left and right legs in a metronomic walking motion to reach his dressing gown.


The man opened his eyes, it was no big surprise. He was tired, he had perspired, and now he desired breakfast. His dressing gown was upside down, and this made him frown. The fluff – it was enough – now he was in a huff!


The morning sun streamed through the blinds. He awoke from a dream about Ella – beautiful, celestial Ella – high school sweetheart and possessor of those dark, dangerous eyes. He sat upright and wiped a bead of sweat from his brow, musing on the ephemeral nature of man and the deep love he felt for the trees, plants, petunias, rosebuds, weeping willows, and fish around him. He applied his dressing gown: a soft cushion supporting the shoulders of time and the love he carried in his dark heart for dear, sweet, frigid Ella.


The bed got out of the man. The caribou in the mauve-green negligee was puffing on a filter tip and reading Jacques Costeau’s Guide to Snorkelling in Nice. A Mexican bollard floated across the room and ate the pockets of time attempting to form a unity in the room’s self-contained temporal vacuum. Somewhere, a piano farted.

Dan Brown:

The man – that is, Detective John Wilson of Rome’s 4th Division Michelangelo Squad – awoke from his bed. The man – Detective John Wilson – walked to the cupboard. A sizzling fire erupted from the cupboard in the manner of a volcano somewhere deep in Mexico, such as the Popocatépetl (5452m high), or the Ixtaccihuatl (5286m high), and shocked him (Detective John Wilson). He (the Detective) thought that something strange might be happening here, something to do with Jesus being a Sheila.


The man awoke. Light. Traffic noise. Sweat in armpits. Weariness of purpose. He stood. Cold floor. He walked. Got dressing gown. Had breakfast. Choked on Cornflake. Absence of life. Damn.


He woke up! It was bright! The sun was shining! The bed was warm! He spent an extra few minutes in bed! He put on his dressing gown! It was very comfortable! He laughed! Breakfast was delicious! He broke wind!

Cynical Bourgeois Dad Novel:

Edmond Frampton, fast-drinking editor on the cheap TV serial Lazy Satirical Swipe, grumpily rose to his feet. The bloody milkman clanging on the door again. Stupid Asians. The teenage girl he had bedded last night was dribbling on his favourite pillow. When would the young people learn respect? Especially the young people he was sleeping with? He shrugged on his dressing gown and popped back a series of nondescript pills, grumping into the sink. Why was his life as an influential TV director, earning £40K a year, with a high-profile in the business, and opportunities to do better things in the future, so shit?

Shock Novel:

The Iraqi terrorist awoke from his bed and shot a Jewish man seven times in the head with a gun made from the skins of a Muslim, a Catholic, a pro-lifer, an underage teenage girl, a nun and Dave Eggers. The small rabbit he was having sex with then expelled its bowels and made a negative remark about Barack Obama being too idealistic and not fit for office.

More later. Maybe.


  1. Telling:

    Bed and nudity behind him, he had shoved his hands into his dressing gown pockets and negotiated the stairs. It was a failed negotiation, as evidenced by his crumpled body and broken neck.


    Mattresses, pillows, pyjamas, dressing gowns, what the fuck did they count for? Breakfast or no breakfast, who really gave a fuck? He knew that the morning sun shining through the clear blue sky wasn't doing it for him.


    There's something in a man's soul that responds to a warm sun and the sound of the waves breaking on the shore. The sea breeze coming through the open window cooled his body as he rose and put on his dressing gown. That this morning was not unusual, that this truly was his life, made him feel blessed. He changed his mind as the man entered the room, aimed the gun and shot him in the head.

  2. I was going to name favourites, but as the list went on I really couldn't tell anymore, as I was rolling around on the floor laughing too hard [/praise].

    Composing myself, however, I think perhaps Dan Brown - notable bestselling crapdealer with less to say than ways to say it - is slightly beating Shock novel and Surreal as the ones that earned the loudest laughs.

    I'd tweet this if I was a tweeter!

  3. Hehehehe. Nice. Dan Brown's style would be muchly improved by a farting piano here and there.

  4. Mike:

    We're getting dangerously close to the drabble here. I wonder how you go about parodying a drabble. Mock the 100-word limit? Lampoon the remarkable characterisation and profound effect of 100 teensy words? Hmm.

    CC: Any excuse to kick Dan Brown while he's down. Well, he's ALWAYS down, given he's the worst writer working in the world today, but you get the point.

    Thank you for the hypothetical re-tweetage![/accept of praise]

  5. Chris: We tele-posted. Yes, I'd definitely buy Dan Brown's "The Enigma of the Farting Piano."

    Well, I wouldn't PAY for it. But hey. Kleptomania is in this season.

  6. Mark:
    Your Minimilist came pretty clos to lampooning a drabble.

    OK, let's try (using your mocking idea):

    100. So much to say, so few words to say it. 88. I was born sixteen words ago. I will die with 100. Damn, 75. Why couldn’t they give me more? At least with life, you add on the years but you don’t know the limit. 53. I have 50 words to live. Hell, even with cancer three months has been known to extend for years. 43. The final full stop approaches, and still I have not conveyed all I meant to say. 16. Introspection will be the death of me. Keep it simple. I am drabble. 2. The end.

    Poor old Dan Brown (well, rich old Dan brown actually), how we love to pick on him.

    Insert Derek and Clive sketch here: -
    Derek: "Well Dud, why not mock him, he's a souless hack,....."
    Clive: "Yeah Pete, he's a cunt..."
    (Derek and Clive, for those unfamiliar, were a series of recordings made by Dudley Moore and Peter Cook in the seventies. Never aired cos they were 70% F and C words. They went on to produce several more records, all deliberately offensive - but bloody funny).

  7. Bravo, Mike. That's a great drabble assassination. You've spawned a whole new genre: the drabble-drubbing.

    I've heard of Derek & Clive, especially the stories of Peter Cook basically bullying his old mate under the guise of satire. I've been dubious to listen, but I suppose I ought to before I die.

    I recommend Peter Cook's recordings with Chris Morris. Sublime.