Twitter Buys SETI

The business community telegraphed their growing belief that Regulan candidate Quintelex might just be the next president of the United States by applauding Twitter's acquisition of the SETI program.

Most political pundits have poo-poohed the Quintelex campaign, citing polls showing that the American people are not ready for a president who, although born during a short stop in the state of Kansas where his parents were attending the Crop Circle Festival, is clearly alien.

Still, Quintelex struggles on in the face of such prejudice.

By Twitter acquiring the SETI program, the trend-setting social communications company could be saying that the American people are more open to alien interface than jaded Democrats and Republicans  realize.

"But why acquire SETI?" this reporter asked the CEO of Twitter.  

He smiled indulgently at my mystification.  Later, I would wonder if "mystification" was actually a word.

"The radio signals monitored by the SETI program might contain intelligent discourse," he said gently.

I was confused.

"So you have a personal interest in the search for intelligent life among the stars?"

"In a way."

"Does this mean," I asked, "that you've been unable to find intelligent life in Twitter Tweets?"

He began to pluck at his fingernails, as though trying to torture himself.


"Have you ever tried reading Tweets day in, day out looking for something more intelligent than, 'I love the new iPhone', or 'Eminem's too old' or how many 'K's" in  Gaga?'"

I saw his point.

"There's another thing," he said.  "The EPA is changing the classification of Twitter Tweets from non-toxic household waste to HAZARDOUS.  The Surgeon General has determined that they're toxic to our brains.  That means we have to find a way to dispose of them; the EPA won't allow us to just litter the web with them anymore."

This reporter finally saw the "why."

"So you're jumping on the Quintelex campaign bandwagon to convince him to open up Space as the new electronic hazardous waste dumping ground?  Since Tweets have no redeeming social value and worse are now considered toxic, you want to get rid of them by broadcasting them into space?  And in return, you'll support his candidacy, is that it?"

He put his hand on my shoulder.

"Look," he said, "the entire universe sends us their incomprehensible white noise, why can't we send some back?  SETI's been monitoring their electronic refuse for years.  Time for them to share the pain.  We'll donate cash to Quintelex's campaign if the Regulan team will support the new law allowing us to re-locate Toxic Tweets into deep space."

"Re-locate is a polite word for 'dump,' isn't it?"

"Now you're learning," he said.

Quintelex Objects to Extraterrestrial Profiling

It's not hard to see why Quintelex is upset.

Quintelex is the first extraterrestrial entity to run as a presidential candidate in US history.

It seemed like the Regulan's entrance to the race would successfully show the American commitment to diversity and civility in political discourse.


Then Democrats and Republicans started passing out tinfoil hats to prospective voters.

"It keeps their mind control rays from fusing your neurons,"  they explained as they gave them away, never mentioning Quintelex by name.

Quintelex maintains these election year tactics are a form of profiling.  Both President Obama and Mitt Romney deny this.  President Obama claimed that giving away tin foil hats was just another "unique jobs program developed by his administration.  Someone has to make those tin foil hats," he maintained.  Republican nominee Mitt Romney would only say, "I like shiny things."

Undaunted, Quintelex's team maintains that the tinfoil hats are evidence of polarizing partisan pejorative profiling.

To see if there is any truth to this accusation, this reporter interviewed Dr. Rhebus Downthenose of the Chicago Institute of Annoying Behavior.


"Dr. Downthenose," I asked,  "is focusing on a candidate's planet of birth another form of profiling?"

"You see, you just had to ask that," he shouted and jumped up from behind his desk to double power-fist the air.  "Your kind always does."

"My kind?" I asked incredulously.

"Yes, your kind.  Sit down."

He pointed at a chair across from his desk.

I sat.  My kind always did.

"So professor, is it true that the American people are profiling Quintelex just because he's an alien?  If so, does he really have a fair chance?"

"You see, this?"  he asked, holding his right index finger up in the air.  "It is known in certain parts of Detroit as a passage opener, or nose-picker.  Regulans do not have an index finger.  Quintelex therefore cannot pick his own nose.  He isn't like us."

"Why thank you, Dr. Downthenose.  I think that answers my question."

"Where's you tin-foil hat?" he demanded.


"I'll be leaving now," I said as I got up from the chair and edged back toward the door.

His eyes narrowed.


"You have to protect yourself from their mind control rays," he said in a menacing tone.


He rose from the chair slowly; a look of manic intensity flushed his pinched face.


"They bombard us with their thoughts constantly.  They take over our way of thinking.  Always displacing our thoughts with theirs.  You can't hide from them."

I closed the gently but firmly behind me.  From behind the frosted glass I could hear the doctor ranting about how they were always bombarding our minds, displacing our thoughts with theirs.

The thing was, I wasn't sure if he was talking about Democrats and Republicans or aliens.

My cell phone rang.

It was that special ring reserved for out of state political telemarketers.

Constantly bombarding our minds.  Replacing our thoughts with theirs.

Now that I think of it, how much difference is there between the thoughts of politicians and aliens?

Facebook and the Regulan Plan

Regulans are new to US politics.  

In fact, on their planet they don't have politicians.  Quintelex, having just thrown his hat in the ring for the 2012 presidential race, is anxious to be just like any other earth candidate.  So he brought his three key advisers (pictured above) from his home planet of Regula to help get his campaign off the ground.

Their first task was to hire Democratic and Republican operatives to teach Quintelex how to be sarcastic, angry, condescending, and, most important, to lie.

Unfortunately, Regulans are genetically incapable of lying.  President Obama and contender Mitt Romney will be forced to carry that burden alone.  Both seem up to the job, according to the most recent computer analysis conducted by a team of Regulan Tarot Readers.

Since training Quintelex in lying and smear campaigns was ruled out of the question, this allowed Candidate Quintelex's three advisers to concentrate on developing a plan to save the US economy (which will soon have a credit rating lower than most lemonade stands) and restore a sense of fairness and understanding to the American people.  Quintelex was clear in his telepathic instructions- do not develop a plan like either the Democrats or the Republicans.  Neither of these parties is much to write home about- particularly when you live 135 million light years away.

Instead, Quintelex demanded a scientific plan based around what Americans actually do.  Once the Regulan computers figured out what Americans actually do versus what they say they'll do, Quintelex felt discovering a realistic solution would be simple.

And it was.

Today he unveiled the new Regulan Facebook Plan.

If elected president of the United States this year, he will immediately implement this comprehensive plan.  Congressional approval will not be necessary since they will be replaced with Facebook Likes and the new Facebook Don't Likes.

Yes, under the Regulan Plan, Facebook will replace American politics.

No longer will there be such a thing as illegal immigration or legal residency.  Only those people with a sufficient number of likes will be allowed to stay in the country and this could change at any moment based on their Facebook status.

Income will be completely fluid as well, and will be distributed according to the number of Facebook likes an individual has achieved.  Poor people could become wealthy overnight if enough people like them.  Wealthy people could become overnight paupers seeing their income distributed to more popular individuals.

Justin Bieber will, of course, be excluded.


A peculiar aspect of the Regulan Facebook Plan is that plants, animals and imaginary characters would have the same rights as people if they received enough Facebook likes.  The reasoning behind this aspect of the plan was really a nod to American culture.  Quintelex felt that if corporations are considered citizens, trees should be, too.


Some in the media protested that trees should not have citizenship and due process- they're not human.  Then again, neither is Quintelex.

Initial reaction to the Regulan plan was mixed.

Most of his audience were too busy texting to hear him anyway.

Third Party Candidate Enters Presidential Race

Finally a candidate has come forward who can deal with the illegal alien issue.  

More than that, Quintelex (which is only a facsimile pronunciation of his name) is variable bi-gender, thus allowing this new entrant to help the American people to at last rise above gender issues.  On his home planet (somewhere in the fourth knot of string theory)  neither same sex nor opposite sex marriage is possible for obvious reasons.

As a writer, I find Quintelex and his candidacy very interesting.

Unfortunately, the "birther" issue has raised its ugly head.  Quintelex was born during an overnight stop in Kansas in 1892 during the Crop Circle Festival.  No state in the Union knows how to celebrate crop circles like Kansas.  As Donald Trump pointed out yesterday, "Where's the proof?  If he/she is from Regula or Hawaii, it's no matter to me, but he can't run without proof of citizenship."  Mitt Romney has already called for Quintelex to "self-deport" and Barack Obama drove home the point that "You can't keep people out with a border fence when they come from the sky."

Trump hammered home his case.  "If he/she is a legal citizen, where's his/her Facebook page?"

As I writer, I find this really interesting.

Quintelex has a real chance of getting on the ballots come November if the age issue doesn't sink the feisty Regulan's candidacy.  At age 120 earth years, Quintelex would be the oldest US president in the history of the United States.  Efforts by the candidate to date  to explain that 120 years is the Regulan equivalent of 18, have not been able to quiet voter concerns, particularly since Miley Cyrus announced her support of the candidate.

But this newest entrant into the US political fray has one thing going for him that beats Mitt Romney's hair and Barack Obama's singing voice- he can't speak.

Regulans have no vocal cords whatsoever.

Think of it.

A presidential candidate who can't talk.  A presidential candidate we won't have to listen to.

Wow.

This reporter is impressed.

Now You've Done It

Your family and friends were right.

You write about your writing too much.

You spend so much time Facebook spamming the rest of the world about your writing that you missed the call.

No one who works for the government ever answers their phone, so they called you.

They were looking for the insurance carrier that would take care of the damages caused to their saucer by our planet's unmanned spacecraft.  Space is a dangerous place and everybody is supposed to have insurance.  It wasn't their fault that our space probe didn't have enough brains to recognize an intergalactic stop sign.  And now someone has to pay for the replacement dilithium crystals.  So they called you.

But you were so busy writing about your writing on Facebook.that you missed their last peace offering.  They are a peaceful race from a peaceful planet and like to resolve things peacefully.  But, as the designated Earth representative, you were writing about your writing and didn't answer your phone.

What's an alien race with a grudge to do?

Maybe you should take a breather from writing about your writing long enough to realize that the planet's in danger without you.

Or maybe just pay attention to your family and friends.

It's summer, don't you know?

Put away you laptop and your electronic friends and engage in life.  Writers who don't live life to the fullest have no business telling stories to the rest of us.

Besides, we're all still dodging alien death rays because you wouldn't take the call from the planet Regula.

Going Backward to Meet the Future

All smart people know that you must go backward to move forward.

No one really knows why.

It's enough to acknowledge it.

Art Bell and his successor George Noorey (of Coast to Coast A.M. fame) are both fascinated by time travel.  As a sophisticate of the Inner Lodge of Wowness, I confess that Time Travel is cool stuff.  Shadow People are a major yawn next to Time Travel.  Rod creatures and Chupacabras don't even compare.

Why is time travel so cool?

It's easy enough to understand.  As Immanuel Kant or his third cousin pointed out on more than one occasion, "Oh to go back to where I could wear a hat like that and get away with it."

As a writer, I find it very interesting.

It is the key to all human relationships, I believe.  The need to go back.  The need to restore things to the way they were.  To go forward is to know that you are making a choice that could be wrong.  Ending up with someone that may not be right.

To go forward is to get old.

Grim but true.

And if it's true that fashions cycle back into popularity, think of the trouble we'll all be in before too long.

To be able to travel back into the past means that the past is still there.  That it's not gone forever, that we always have options to change what we did and start fresh.

But it's confusing, so I'm asking you, as a writer, do you use time travel in your stories?  If not, would you?

If you don't know the answer, I'll have to ask the  kid in the picture.

Imagine the answer I'll get.

Amazon Takes New Position on Selling Plagiarized Books

Before reading this, please remember that the noted aboriginal psychic Sven Heruingal predicted last Thursday before breakfast that without more signatures on the petition in the upper left hand corner of this blog, your chances of being plagiarized might be increased.

*****

I had my notebook out and my Montblanc pen balanced on the edge of my salad bowl.  It was my way of telling her that I was ready to take notes at a moment's notice, although Tahini sauce tends to smear the ink.


Before arriving, I'd clipped my press pass to my collar so she'd recognize me.

"So, as someone who looks like a celebrity lawyer but isn't,"  I said,  "can you confirm to this reporter beyond a shadow of a doubt that the serial plagiarist David B. Boyer from Vincennes, IN and Amazon are in a way business partners?"

"No," she said.

I wanted to eat some of my tabouli, but didn't want to spend hours flossing the little parsley flakes out from between my teeth.

"But doesn't Amazon publish a lot of plagiarized material through CreateSpace?"

"Define a lot," she smiled, and for a moment I thought she looked like Nancy Grace would if she were attractive.

"Too much?"  I offered.


She adjusted her glasses to look down her nose.

"According to Judge Judy, the phrase business partners can mean many things."

"Try this,"  I said,  "David B. Boyer and others like him steal the copyrighted work of other writers. He and the other sleaze-buckets send this stolen work to one of the Amazon owned companies who then turns this digital theft into a hard copy product called a book.  Then the main Amazon company sells the stolen content which is also now a physical product through its main outlet and gives it to a bunch of distributors to sell so more innocent people are implicated in this crooked operation.  All because Amazon, with their massive computing powers, doesn't even check whether the stuff is stolen.  They do the Wink Wink."

She put down her falafel sandwich and stared at me.

"The what?"

"The Wink Wink," I said.  "That's where even though Amazon has all the computing power in the world to see if the submitted work is stolen, they ask the plagiarist to sign a document that it's not and that way they don't have to check it themselves and find out for sure it's stolen.  That way Amazon can still go on making money on stolen product, they can still pay the thieves to keep on providing stolen product and if anyone complains about it, they say they didn't know."

"You should start your own online bookstore," she said.  "You're pretty good at this."

"I was born to report, ma'am,"  I told her.  "News is in my blood.  Selling stolen product like Amazon does and pretending they have no responsibility for their involvement might make them money, but I still have my own press pass.  You have to be an ace reporter to get one of these."

I thought she'd be impressed.  Instead she made me an offer that shocked me.  When a woman in a low cut red dress makes you a shocking offer, you pay attention.

"Hypothetically, and with no basis in reality, if Amazon made their plagiarized book sales into a separate division or company, would a good looking reporter like you be interested in running it?"

I thought about it.  If she would have said hot looking reporter, I might have taken the bait.

"No, ma'am," I said.  "It's not the fact that it would be sleazy but profitable, it's just that  Amazon's logo is embarrassing.  It's not relevant to their pretend-they-don't know-they-publish-plagiarized-writing business model."

"And what would you propose?"  she asked.

I shoved a photo across the table at her.  Our fingers brushed as she stared wide-eyed at the picture I've posted on this blog.  It could easily be made into the new Amazon logo and she knew it.

Thing is, when a company's executives stick their head in the sand while their operating units are buying and selling stolen material, the Federal Trade Commission can come along and kick them in the ass.  Maybe I should let the FTC know about this scam.

Maybe I'll just stick with being a reporter.  

From the Secret Files of the Vincennes, Indiana EPA

They signed the petition in the upper left hand corner of this blog before the smoggy darkness settled in over the city of Vincennes, IN.  Television helicopters as of this writing cannot penetrate the obfuscation to see if anyone remains behind with David B. Boyer, the serial plagiarist who started it all...

*****

We met just after midnight at EPA headquarters.  The soft glow of computer screens lit empty desktops with an electric eldritch light.  A floating hologram of Al Gore singing Ricky Martin hits at a Brazilian karoake bar sent shivers down my spine.

The hallways were dark, but my informant still wore sunglasses and a large rubber nose to conceal his identity.  A black fedora and trenchcoat completed the disguise.

"Keep your voice down," he whispered, "and call me JoJo."

"But your name's Bob," I said.

"Do you want the story or not?"

I thought it over.

"So, Jojo, is it true the EPA is considering a special David Boyer smog alert for the area surrounding Vincennes, Indiana?"

He glanced furtively up and down the hallway.  

His real job was night shift janitor for the EPA.  All good reporters know that janitors are the best spies.  The dirt, as my old editor always said, is usually in the waste basket.

"Can we step into this broomcloset?" he asked.

"I'm not that kind of guy."

"Neither am I, but this is confidential stuff.  Director is going on TV soon to announce a quarantine of the whole town.  Pollution's so bad you can't tell clouds from the air.  It's all the people driving away from Vincennes, Indiana.  Town's got a bad name because of David Boyer's plagiarism.  Nobody wants to live in the same town with a scam artist like him.  Tailpipe exhaust from all of those people trying to escape has created a disgusting cloud over that city that's starting to block out the sun."

This reporter was stunned.

"All the trees will die," I said.  "People will have to wear face masks just to breathe.  Incredible.  How long do I have to break the story?"

"Better hurry," he said.  "Word is Boyer is plagiarizing faster than you can type."

"But I type over 100 words a minute."

He faded back into the shadows.

"Better type quicker," he whispered from the darkness. "You're falling behind."

Young Writers Vulnerable to Plagiarizing Publishers

"Don't Let David B. Boyer Touch My Story, Mommy."

"It's an entirely new phenomena," said Dr. Icky.

He tapped his index finger on the wall mounted coumpter screen indicating the picture of the crying little girl and her desperate mother you see above.  I felt a chill go down my spine as I realized the implications of what the doctor was saying.

"So, this is a documented, peer-reviewed study proving beyond a shadow of a doubt that David Boyer, the sleazy plagiarist from Vincennes, Indiana is the reason little girls all across the country are suffering PTSS?"

He nodded authoritatively.  Dr. Icky is Dean of Sociopathic studies at Vincennes, Indiana University.

"Yes," he said.  "PTSS, or Pre-plagiary Traumatic Stress Syndrome as it is sometimes known, is in fact the fear that little girls have of David Boyer touching their stories."

I wrote slowly, making sure that I  spelled PTSS properly.

"So they're afraid David Boyer will touch their writing even if he hasn't?  Why is that, doctor?"

"Ahhh, now you are thinking like a scientist," he said approvingly.

"I enjoy watching Mr. Wizard re-runs on Hulu.com," I said.

"Hmmmm..." he replied.  "Perhaps we need to schedule an appointment for you.  But we can get to that later.  For now, do you know why the woman in this photo is so upset?"

I looked closer.

"No."

"She learned David Boyer stole a story from a sixteen year old girl.  It shocked her.  It horrified her.  She told me her fear of Boyer's improper touching of other people's writings so affected her daughter that the little girl developed PTSS within days.  A sixteen year old girl- what kind of a man would steal the inner thoughts of a sixteen year old girl?"

I thought about it.

"Could it be linked to wearing a black trench coat and no pants near schoolyards?"  I asked.

Dr. Icky looked uncomfortable as tugged at his lab coat lapel.

"That's a creepy thought," he said finally.

"No," I said.  "A fifty-plus year old man hunched over a computer stealing stories from sixteen year old girls- now that's a really creepy thought."

The Drinking Water or Genetics Gone Wild?

Scientists Discover Plagiary Genes in Vincennes, IN

Last week, a group of teen-aged genetic archaeologists were shocked to discover what could be the genes that cause a bad writer posing as a publisher to plagiarize.  Authorities are still searching for the owner of the genes.

"Somebody wore them," said an un-identified source in the Vincennes Police Department.  "Sooner or later they'll run out of identities to hide behind."

Marie Cruz, noted expert in posing as people she's not, said, "These kids should get a medal.  If they've located the precursor genetic strands that cause people to steal intellectual property and claim it as their own, we need to name something after them.  Like maybe a prison or something."

Names of the young scientists are not being released until they secure a media agent.

"This is the second major discovery of plagiary roots in the State of Indiana in the last seven or eight months," said Professor Steven Ricecakes.  "First that Caswell thing.  That was bad enough.  I thought we were going to have to change the name of the state it was so embarassing.  Then along comes David B. Boyer.  Ouch.  Now we really need to change the state name.  You think people in Indiana want the rest of the world to know they live in the same state as Caswell and David B. Boyer?"

In fact, investigators from the Human Genome Project are thinking of sending water pollution experts to Vincennes, Indiana, to determine if contaminated water could be the "Patient Zero" of the recent outbreak of Plagiarizing Publishers that have humiliated the whole state.

Director Tanya Sterilize says it's dangerous work looking into stupidity.  "I tell my investigators not to drink the water when they're in off the grid little towns like Vincennes, Indiana or they could end up stealing stuff and selling it under an alias.  Maybe it's not a gene causing this thing but some kind of squirming little parasite in the water.  Think about it- you are what you  drink.  If you've got parasites in your water, you'll get parasites in your stomach and sooner or later in your head."

Parasites in the head.

What better definition for the word "plagiarist?"

Murder or Accidental Death- You Decide

Friends and family were distraught by news regarding the unexpected death of Bart the Chicken at a Vincennes, Indiana landfill yesterday.  Although police are still investigating the popular bird's passing, they have not collected sufficient evidence to rule out foul play.

"An unidentified suspect dumped a printout of David B. Boyer's plagiarisms and copyright infringements in the landfill at the edge of town sometime late Thursday night" said the detective in charge of the WTF investigative squad.  "It was a huge amount of paper and Bart just loved to eat paper.  Lots of birds do.  I had a crow that ate my grandmother's recipe for Plagiary Pie a year back.  We had to pump the poor little guy's stomach.  And that was only three pages!"

"Can you tell this reporter how many pages were printed out of Boyer's plagiaries?"  I asked.

The detective cocked his head toward the brooding Indiana sky as though looking for guidance.

"Well," he said finally, "a scientist from Vincennes University told us if you took all the ink used to print out David B. Boyer's plagiaries, poured it into a giant spaceship and dumped it on the sun, you could cause a complete and total eclipse that might destroy all life on planet Earth for a thousand years."

"Wow,"  I said.

"That's what I said," he agreed.  "And remember, Bart the Chicken only ate a fraction of Boyer's printed plagiaries.  If he ate all the pages or, say we stuffed them down his beak with a hydraulic plunger, why there'd be such an explosion we'd have feathers from here to New Jersey."

"And chicken shit,"  I added.

Since I've been investigating Boyer's plagiaries, I think of that phrase every time I hear his name.

Team of Surgeons Mull Conscience Transplant for Vincennes, Indiana Plagiarist

Of all the earlier pieces of investigative articles I've published on David Boyer, the serial plagiarist from Vincennes, Indiana, this piece got the most reaction.  Except from Oprah, who never returned my emails or calls, but did send me a coupon for the new chain of restaurants she's opening in Egypt.


The research behind this article gave me the idea for the book in progress "American Sleaze."   And it led me to a source who was more than willing to dish out details on David Boyer and his seedy plagiaries. I'll post segments of these shocking interviews over the next few weeks, and they form the thematic backdrop of the new book.


Here's the investigative piece that started my wheels turning:

*****

Las Vegas oddsmakers are giving odds of 20:1 against the notorious plagiarist David Boyer of Vincennes, Indiana accepting a remarkable offer from the Arkham College of Neurosurgeons to attempt the world's first Conscience Transplant.

Dr. F. Lobe urged Mr. Boyer to accept the offer.

"What's to lose?" she said.  "Talk to the man's victims- he's done nothing for them, not even admit publicly that he plagiarized them.  So I'm saying to him, like a doctor and a good mother- get a conscience, even a little one can't hurt."

Finding a conscience donor, however, could be tricky.  He will need a real conscience, one from someone recognized for their integrity, to balance his morality deficit.  Scientist Sarah Bellum, PhD points out that Boyer's brain currently registers negative on the conscience scale.  "Of course," she admits, "I've only scanned him from a distance.  I didn't want to get too close in case he felt tempted to steal my doctoral thesis."

This reporter contacted the Ghandi Institute in India, since the headquarters in Pontiac, MI did not return our phone calls.

"Ghandhi's dead,"  said Rasheej Gukathason, the security guard who answered the phone.  (time differences can be very tricky, even for an investigative journalist).  "His conscience is gone someplace.  Who knows where?  Don't ask me, I'm just the security guard."

"Where does the conscience go after death?" I asked.

A burst of solar radiation most likely was the cause of the dial tone that followed my question.

I later contacted a mysterious man known only as "The Donor Hunter," and he suggested that Donor Consciences could be purchased if you knew the right people.  "Charlie Sheen, for example," he said.  "He used to have a conscience, but he's not using it now.  Maybe for bond money he'll sell it if you have enough cash.  Or go to politicians.  They have absolutely no use for them.  And some of them lie better than Boyer so it would be a good match.  And they always swear they've done nothing wrong, just like he does."

"So his brain won't reject the conscience in question if it comes from an out of control actor or a sleazy politician?"

"Exactly," said the Donor Hunter.

"But then he'll still suffer from Conscience-Deficit Syndrome," I pointed out.

The Donor Hunter's mouth dropped open.

"You thought he was going to change?"  I asked.

"What was I thinking?" he wondered.

Oh No, There Goes Tokyo Again!

Japanese Writer Terrified of Boyerzilla

*****

To get myself into the mood for really digging into the fact based, hard charging journalist mood of finishing the book "Indiana Sleaze," I went through a few of my earlier articles about the sleazy serial plagiarist David Boyer of Vincennes, Indiana.  I was surprised to find that I'd missed the international ramifications of his plagiarisms.  By the time I was done reading my own work, I was seriously fired up, pulled out my press pass (yes, I have one), shined it til the reflection burned a hole in the wall and got working.  I am finishing the last of the 75 inquiries I've penned to officials in his home town, 74 of which have the same last name.

While I finish the last letter, read the facts below and you'll see why all of Japan is in mortal terror of Boyerzilla.

*****

According to early reports, Japanese fiction writers were so terrified of Boyerzilla that they were forced to conceal Mothra, Rhodan and even the mighty Godzilla in undisclosed theme parks and Putt-Putt golf courses scattered throughout the Land of the Rising Sun. The initial effort did turn out well due to size restrictions (it's hard to hide a giant moth under a windmill). It was not until Minister of Literacy Ichiro Murakami conceived of hiding these three greatest of all Japanese superheroes in an exhibit called "Land of the Giants" that the general reading public was able to breathe a sigh of relief.

Hoping for another Boyergate scoop, I Skyped Minister Murakami.

"Hello," I said. "Can you both see and hear me?"

"What are you selling?" replied the Minister. "I already have insurance."

I sensed a certain level of frustration in his voice.

"I'm a reporter," I said, "hot on the trail of breaking news stories that concern David Boyer, the serial plagiarist from Vincennes, Indiana."

"I have no time for reporters. Writers are rioting in the streets. There is looting here. When rumors started that the cow-tongued plagiarist David Boyer had grown to such monstrous proportions he was looking overseas for things to steal, the whole Japanese population went mad!"

"Calm down," I told him. "I don't even think David Boyer knows where Japan is."

"How can I be calm? Mothra is not safe. Rhodan is not safe. Godzilla is not safe. Boyer is writing film scripts so bad his cats use them for litter. Soon he'll start stealing our film scripts and putting his name on them. If he claims he wrote the script for the movie "Godzilla," our whole nation will jump into the sea. Godzilla is Japanese. Mothra and Rhodan are Japanese. We live through a tidal wave and a nuclear meltdown only to have to worry about Boyerzilla stealing our stuff?!"

"Minister," I cautioned, "Boyer can't read Japanese so he's not likely to plagiarize Japanese Godzilla movies."

His image waivered as he shouted and banged his fist on the table.

"He can't write in American, but he plagiarizes Americans. What do you say to that?"

Sure, bring that up.

"He lives in Vincennes, Indiana and he plagiarizes Vincennes writers!"

"I have to admit that sounds bad," I said.

"He claims to be Christian, but he plagiarizes Christian writers!"

I had to turn down the volume on my computer speakers- they were starting to vibrate.

"But Minister Murakami- " I said, but he cut me off before I could complete my sentence.

"No buts!!! He likes monster movies. Our monsters are the best. He plagiarized Dean Koontz, why wouldn't he plagiarize Godzilla?"

"Godzilla didn't write the movie scripts, Minister, He's just a monster-actor. So Boyer wouldn't technically be plagiarizing Godzilla himself."

The icy stare he gave me through my computer screen was so cold I shivered.

"You mean Godzilla is a film writer?"

He nodded.

"Wow," I said. "There's a movie script in this."

I know I shouldn't have said that because it made him so mad he spit on his webcam. It looked like a giant mucous meteorite hurtling at me. Then he clicked off without a word.

Hmmm.... Boyerzilla versus the Giant Mucous Meteorite.

There's a movie script in that.

*****

To preserve my journalistic integrity, I gave myself written permission to reprint the above article.  

She's Too Grossed Out to Read and It's My Fault

The call came late last night.

"Hello?"

Never sleep with your cell phone near your bed when trying to finish a good dream.

"My daughter won't come out of the closet, you creep.  That sleaze David Boyer's still at it and now she's too grossed out to read.  Thinks Boyer plagiarized Doctor Seuss.  What are you going to do about it?"

I sat straight up in bed.  It was happening all over again.  

"Ma'am," I said, "have you filed a report with the Attorney General of Indiana?"

"Fat lot of good that's done so far.  Where's that book you've been working on about serial plagiarists if you're so smart?"


I slid into my jeans, turned on the light and saw they were on backward.  It's important to label your clothes "Front" and "Back" if you're an emergency plagiary responder.  I made a mental note.

"Sorry about the delay.  I was looking for a new title due to recent events.  Plagiarism is so widespread now I thought I'd call it American Sleaze instead of Indiana Sleaze."

"What kind of plagiary reporter are you?"  she asked.  "You take nine months on a new title?  I gave birth to two kids in nine months."

She had me there.  In my defense, I'd finished two novels and was closing in on a third.  Besides I was giving the Assistant Attorney General of Indiana a little maneuvering room.  And I'd been working on the alien/Boyer connection, but the government's denying everything.  That's how I knew I was on to something.

"Well?"  she snapped.  "How many kids too grossed out to read is it going to take for you to finish that book exposing creeps like David Boyer?"

"Ma'am, I'm not the plagiary police."

"You got the rest of us writers stirred up- you better be something."

"I'm a good investigative reporter," I said.  "Maybe I could put those skills to use."

It's true.  I claim full responsibility for covering Bigfoot's march to Vincennes, Indiana to howl at Boyer.

"Then finish that book!  At least you'll expose him."

I took a deep breath.

"I'll do it," I said.  "You're right.  I got everybody stirred up- time to finish the job."

"Put your pants on straight first," she said and hung up.


Before I did that, I got some duct tape and stuck it over the camera lens on my cellphone.

Serial Plagiarist David Boyer Runs New Scam

Imagine the horror!

This reporter was informed that writer Ferrel Moore was just bilked out of $10 over at Indiegogo.com,  where Indiana Sleaze David Boyer posted a project under a fake name.   It looked like a real screen project.  It looked like it was a project put up for a really good cause.  Mr. Moore apparently wanted to help this desperate screen-writer (now that we know it's really David Boyer in another cheap disguise we can guess why he's desperate), but now, alas, he is forced to report this scam to the authorities.


Is this known plagiarist, who has in the past sold books with stories he stole and put his name on, now guilty of fraud?  Or just insipid bad taste?  But is pretending to be someone else while asking for money without revealing his deviant past in the publishing industry a legal issue, or evidence of moral vacuity?    At the very least he has violated the Terms of Service of Indiegogo.com

Someone should tell them that.  This reporter wonders who will first spill the beans to them.

In further developments, now that Mr. Moore donated, he says he'll have to ask his attorney whether David Boyer the serial plagiarist has crossed another line or not.  While, of course, he's filing a complaint with the Internet Crime Complaint Center.

This reporter sends a big thanks to b.thoughtful for letting writers and readers everywhere know about his new scam.  I learned it from her post at http://b-thoughtful2.blogspot.com/2012/03/david-boyer-wants-your-money.html 

If anyone else has donated money online to the Indiana Sleaze while he is hiding under a fake name, you can file a complaint against him at www.ic3.gov (the Internet Crime Complaint Center).  Hopefully the state will someday award him an orange jumpsuit.

*****

The twenty-fifth place runner-up in the David Boyer Look-Alike contest agreed to stand in for Serial Plagiarist David Boyer in the headline photo for purposes of this article.

The Witch's Brew- The Writer and the Living Dead, Part Two of Four

"A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of small minds..."  Ralph Waldo Emerson

"Wile E. Coyote, Supergenius. I like the way it rolls out. Wile E. Coyote, Supergenius."  Wile E. Coyote

*****

Sometimes you just have to scrape them off the windshield.

Zombie writers.

The ones who shuffle mindlessly down the street with nowhere particular to go and the only word they can spell correctly is "hungry."

But they should have seen it coming.  This reporter saw it coming.  Writer's rear ends are getting much larger.

They drank the witch's brew, the one labeled "I don't have to leave this chair.  Google will save me."  So now they wander the literary streets wondering why their writing doesn't ring true.  Doesn't sound authentic.  Sounds kind of like it was made up.  Actually, it was made up.

Worse yet, Hemingway was right.  People that never leave their writer's chairs get kind of big on the back end.

"This is great," one zombie-ized writer told me.  "I can write stories that happen anywhere in the world.  I don't have to travel, I just use Google Earth."

She asked to remain anonymous, so I'm leaving her name out of this interview so I can blackmail her later.  I mean use it to advantage later.  I hope she doesn't read this.

"But do you truly get a feel for that country?"  I asked.   "Enough for your reader's to trust you?  To allow you the convincing narrative authority enabling them to suspend their disbelief and enter completely into your story?  And do you have to keep eating Doritos while we talk?  Don't they have a million calories per bag?"

She twirled a wild lock of red hair and smiled.

"Honey, most of my readers watch Keeping up with the Kardashians.  The rest of them actually don't believe Dancing with the Stars is rigged.  And I can eat all the Doritos I want, dear.  I just ordered the Brazilian Butt Makeover so calories don't count.  It said so on the infomercial."

"You don't seem to like your readers," I observed.  "You get all the information in your books from Google and infomercials.  Is that why you have a Ginsu knife as the murder weapon in one of your murder mysteries?"

"I love my readers.  My readers worship me."

"But you don't really go out and experience life so that you have something to share with them.  How can they trust you with matters of emotional truth if you don't really have a life?  You never seem to leave your computer chair.  Aren't you just recycling third party information?  Why don't you get up from your chair and see and smell the towns you're writing about and talk to the people you're writing about?"

She actually recoiled in her chair.  I felt terrible.  Clearly I'd reminded her of past experiences, where she actually saw her friends instead of Facebooked them.  Times when she actually walked city streets to know what they were like.  Those were the days when she knew the nuantial difference between the word "mean" as it was used in "mean city streets" and as a participating adjective in the movie title "Mean Girls."

I was about to apologize when I saw her on Facebook cutting and pasting conversations.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"Collecting dialogue for my next book," she said vaguely.

"You don't write your own dialogue?  You cut and paste it from Facebook conversations?  You have no feelings, no writer's heart.  You can't write about reality," I screamed,  "if your only reality comes from a computer monitor.  Dialogue should come from your created character's heart!"

Without looking up she said, "You get some good dialogue off of Twitter sometimes, but you've got to really look hard."

I left the interview with a journalistic epiphany- when zombie-ized writers throw themselves against the windshield of your life, this journalist says to just keep driving. 

Aliens Write Better Love Scenes

It's true.

Intergalacticians are famous for their hot, steamy, romantic scenes.  Before earth writers got hold of the script and changed it, "The Day the Earth Stood Still" was so humid alien movie goers were issued raincoats at the doors of their favorite floating theaters.  By the time it got to earth, it was a cure for sleep apnea.

What's happened to earth writers?

Scientist bored with global warming and unable to grasp the complexities of lunar cooling are now hoping to acquire substantive federal grant money to study this issue.

"There's a fortune in figuring this out," said Dr. Itis of Buffalo Wings University.  "Our initial double blind survey on why American writers turned tepid revealed an obsession with tropes, themes and stereotypes."

This reporter likes to record details accurately, so I delved further.

"Doctor, what exactly is a double blind study?"

He looked at me incredulously.

"Why, it's where twelve blind researchers record their observations and report them to twelve more blind researchers.  All twenty four researchers then deliver the report to the supervising scientists, or, if they lose it, something of approximately the same weight."

"Aha," I said.

"American writers crank out the same stuff over and over again.  Our most recent survey revealed that they're afraid of originality.  Terrified of it, actually.  They feel there's risk involved and American writers don't like risk.  That's why aliens write better love scenes.  Many of them lack genitalia and are therefore not bound by our preconceptions."

"No genitalia?" I gasped.

"None.

"Besides the element of risk, why are American writers so afraid of originality?"

This was the moment of truth.  He actually straightened his crisp white lab coat and raised his chin before he spoke.

"They've been to so many writing workshops and group critiques they haven't had time to wonder what originality is.  The modern American writer is very busy with such activities and has little time to be creative."

I took a step closer.

"Are you certain of this doctor?"

Dr. Itis leaned toward me and whispered,  "Absolutely.  I chumped the U.S. government for $180,000 to conduct the study."

Now that, I thought, is real originality.

Boyergate Flash- Aliens Arrive in Vincennes, Indiana to Sign InterGalactic Treaty with Notorious Plagiarist!

Looking Around

for

"The Great One"

The town of Vincennes, Indiana became instantly famous today with the confidential admission of a city official that an entepreneurial mission of Aliens from the Snicker's galaxy has arrived to sign a contract with the city's most notorious and prolific plagiarist.

This reporter was priveleged to interview the lead alien negotiator.

In response to my first question, "Hello, what is your name?" he responded "$@&***(^"

A thirteen year old boy with strawberry blond hair was called in to run the alien's answer through Google Voice and Language Translator, which rendered it as "I'm a good boy."

Further calibration of the Google translator gave us this version, "Where is the Great Plagiarist of Vincennes, Indiana?"

"He's running late," I told him. "It's hard work creating fake identities to hide behind when you're selling stolen work. And it's time consuming when you have to lie to the authors, claim a mob of cyberstalkers is after you, tell people your computer was hacked, and even pretend it's not your fault if you inadvertantly used their stories. He'll explain it to you when he gets here."

"$$-^^^^_+!!!," said the alien.

The teenager translated, "Maybe he said goody goody?"

"Why do you want to be trained in the art of plagiarism and copyright infringement?" I asked.

The alien ambassador grew excited and waved his arms up and down while making a hooting noise. His entourage did the same. It was like they were having an extraterrestrial orgasm and quite embarassing for an earthling to watch.

"Wow," said the kid. "They're saying that there's been no theft on their world. They never thought of stealing until the Great Plagiarist contacted them with a potato powered radio transmitter and offered to scan all of earth's books and give it to them for a percentage of the proceeds when they sell them throughout the universe."

"How much do the authors get?" I asked the kid, who duly ran my request through the Google Voice and Language translator.

After my question was translated, the aliens responded with a raucus chorus of owl sounds punctuated by all of them pointing at what I think were their crotches.

"What?" I asked.

"I think they're busting a gut," said the kid.

Suddenly, I realized why it was worth it for them to travel all the way across the galaxy to consult with the Great One of Plagiarism and it made me mad.  With any luck, they would take the great plagiarist back to their own planet to study.

FrankenBoyer

Let me introduce you to everyone's new favorite Halloween toy.  A combination of Frankenstein and Gumby.  It's a  futile creature doll modeled after the plagiarizing publisher David Boyer of Vincennes, IN.

The idea came to a toy manufacturer after reading how Boyer tried to stitch together past plagiarisms from real authors into a new, nauseatingly bad  book.   He calls it "Shadow Dolls."  Why is ithis patchwork plagiarism so bad? One six year old expert think it's  "the bad man" stitched them together like a blind seamstress suffering from palsey.  I tend to agree.  But whatever the cause of his ineptness the result is stomach pain bad.

Let's try to understand this new failure of the puerile plagiarist.  Imagine if you will a plagiarist- a man with no creative skills of his own, and so low a character that he steals writings from teenagers and senior citizens alike- trying to blend a potpourri of plagiarism into a novel.  The idea can barely be contained within the human skull.

Perhaps we can gain insight by reaching back into the world of fiction.  In the novel Frankenstein, for example, Dr. Victor Frankenstein is brilliant but misguided in his attempts to create life.  Unfortunately, it was his bad judgement to include a defective brain in his newly created creature.  The results were dubious at best and should be intuitively obvious to the discerning student of human nature.

Likewise, when the pitiful plariazing publisher David Boyer of Vincennes, Indiana attempted to create a book that would be his own from multiple writer's work and not get caught, he started out with a brain issue.

Which is why, to this day, Gumby doesn't write.  You see, if you write using the mind of Gumby, for sure you're going to get Pokied.

Bigfoot Still Angry at David Boyer- Revisiting a Little Known Story

Bigfoot Needed a Ride to Vincennes, Indiana

But Developed Engine Trouble Along the Way

I was hot on the trail of another David Boyer exclusive by getting the scoop on why Bigfoot was traveling across the country to see the famous plagiarist in his home town of Vincennes, Indiana.  We were half-way through the wilds of Ohio and the hairy hominid was hurrying to reach the border before sundown. I had to run to keep up with him. Being ten foot tall, his stride was enormous.

The seismic simian had just astonished me by stating he wanted to be a writer.

"Had you thought of basketball instead?" I said as we crested another of Ohio's annoying hills. "There's lots of money in basketball for a guy your size."

"Bigfoot no punk yeti! Bigfoot aim big. Be famous writer like Stephen King."

His words rumbled across the open land like thunder and his eyes were red-yellow and fierce. I resisted the urge to look down and see if he really did have big feet.

"Why are going to see David Boyer?" I asked and added, "Could we sit down on a stump or something?  I'm out of breath."

The gentle giant stopped and looked at me apologetically. "Sorry," he said. "Bigfoot no fit in car. And cheap foreign flying saucer crap out over Toledo."

We found a stump large enough in diameter to support his behind and a log for me to sit on. He sat down rather quietly for a creature weighing over twelve hundred pounds. And in the afternoon sun, he actually looked dignified except for his face being completely covered with fur and those huge teeth. Perhaps by email I'll suggest he consider cologne as a wardrobe accessory as well.

"So," I repeated, "why are you meeting with Mr. Boyer?"

"Bigfoot need help.  Have writer's block," he said, casting his eyes toward the ground. "Can't write worth beef jerky."

"Wait, David Boyer to help you?  He's a terrible writer. He told me so himself in an email."

"But he no have writer's block. He writer lots of books.  Bigfoot have writer's block."

I stood up and walked over to my new friend.

"You don't need to go see Boyer," I said. "I can tell you why Boyer doesn't have writer's block."

"You can?" he said, with a huge smile and a mouthful of blocky teeth. "You make Bigfoot very happy."

"Sure," I said. "His own fiction was so bad it was hard to get published, so he just started stealing other people's work and publishing that under his name or one of his aliases. Most of his work is stolen.  That way he didn't have to deal with writer's block. You see? He was a publisher. Writers submitted their work and he just stole their stories. That's in addition to stealing from writers on StoryMania."

Bigfoot said nothing for a few minutes, then he stood, beat his chest and howled.

"What? What?" I yelled in a panic.

"Bigfoot put story up on StoryMania."

Uh-oh, I thought