Here's to What's-Her-Name.

I haven't actually completed my first novel yet, but I did write the acknowledge page. Have a gander.

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Normally, when an author publishes a groundbreaking piece of work for which he was paid an obscene amount of money he says thank you to all the people who helped him make it happen. If I were anything resembling a decent human being I would do that now.

If I had any kind of moral compass I would dedicate this book to Mom and Dad and thank them for not noticing the hole in the condom and for changing their minds at the last minute and pulling me out of the dumpster after prom let out.


I would thank the writers group members who edited my work and hardly ever complained about the improvised spelling techniques I pioneered or the fact that many of my chapters were hand written in crayon and submitted on the flesh of non-tipping customers who disappeared from my restaurant.


I would thank the staff at the pub where I wrote my novel. These people where troopers who supplied me with endless coffee refills, wrapped me in blankets when they found me crying in a corner, offered first aid and defibrilation when applicable and who were very consistent about telling nosy customers to ignore the screaming from the back room.


I would thank the staff of the publishing house for reading my book and then rescinding their threat to notify the Department of Homeland Security after the incident known as the "Suicide Thong Debacle." What a misunderstanding that was.


But I'm a small and petty man. So I won't be dedicating this book to any of those people.


I'm going to dedicate this book to Julie Ann Hoffman. Ahhh, Julie. Julie, Julie, Julie.

She was a hell of a girl. Smart, beautiful, funny. She could pound whisky with the strength of ten men and held a champion title in seven Bum Fight videos. I once told her I loved her over a Tupperware dish of homemade prison hooch we'd made in her bathtub. She responded by peeing on herself, vomiting in my shoes and stealing three of my CDs before driving off to have a threesome with my best friend and a highway patrolman. Then she broke up with me.

Last I heard anything about Julie she was waiting tables so she could save up to by a new prosthetic leg after she lost the old one when the guy she left me for hit her with his car when she questioned him about some suspicious looking hoo-ha sores.

If you're reading this, Julie, I just want you to know that I'll be thinking of you every time I count all the fat little zeros that come after the fat little number on my royalty check.

What are you doing these days, baby? Still dating the line cooks at Deny's?

Heh, heh, heh...