Excerpt from a completely made up book that Ayn Rand could have written
Tawnie Fipplestein surveyed the vast grey parking lot in front of him. It takes a man, a real man, to look at an empty lot and say “I’m going to put a horse-meat factory there!” And that’s exactly what Tawnie intended on doing.
He kicked at a small pebble on the ground. Insignificant stone! With its feminine curves and weak nature. He stepped on the stone and it crumbled under his Sperry loafers with an exciting pop. “I’ll crush all the stones,” Tawnie thought to himself, “I’ll leave no stone unturned.”
Behind him was Christabelle, sitting on a park bench and admiring Tawnie’s round yet manly buttocks. “It takes a real man to look at an empty lot and say ‘I’m going to put a horse-meat factory there!” she thought to herself. As though he read her mind, Tawnie set his arms akimbo and flexed his cheeks. Christabelle sighed lustily and fanned herself with her kerchief.
Excerpt from a completely made up book that Stephenie Meyer could have written
I rose from my bed groggily, the night before still sour on my mind as I trudged towards my pink perfect bathroom. Mother insisted.
“All girls love pink!” she’d said, making my eyes roll so far back in my head I thought they might get lost. I raised my tooth brush, also pink, to my white, straight teeth and thought of Elton. Laurie introduced us the night before. Everyone knew of him, but no one really knew him, as evidenced by Laurie’s halting introduction.
“He lives in the old Manor house. Now, I always thought that place was condemned?”
“No, it’s…beautiful,” he replied, his blue eyes, the color of freshly cleaned toilet water, trained on my face.
Raining again, of course, I thought to myself as I regarded my foamy-mouthed reflection. It always rains here in Spooner, Washington, where I was born and where I still lived. No one ever left Spooner. It was an inescapable place.
I piled my luxurious raven hair atop my head and pulled on my favorite pair of size two jeans. “Sardonica, breakfast!” my mother shouted up the carpeted stairs. I gulped a breath and padded down to the kitchen.
Excerpt from a completely made up book that Dan Brown could have written
Dr. Bone Inquisitor, Esq. surveyed the scene; one dead woman, covered in cornbread dust, a hanged Pomeranian, and a door stop. What could it mean, he thought moodily.
Chief Inspector Hannibal C. Blount entered the room. He looked around quickly, summing up events, as was his way.
“What we have here,” he started, picking an errant blond hair off his impeccable suit, “is one dead woman covered in cornbread dust, a hanged Pomeranian, and a door stop. What do you think it means?”
Bone knelt over the woman and took a whiff, waving his hand upwards to drum up more of the scent. “Smells like…”
“Maple syrup,” Inspector Blount offered with a snap of his fingers. Bone nodded perilously.
“Exactly,” he said, putting his pen in his mouth. “Maple syrup.”
Excerpt from a completely made up book that Chuck Palahniuk could have written
This dude, the one who’s blowing me in the alley, he takes my floppy dog from between his dick-sucking lips, looks up, and says,
“Did you know Houdini died from a blow to the torso?”
Keep on sucking, I tell him. He wraps his fat hairy hand around my dong and strokes it as he goes on.
“No, it’s true. Houdini challenged a strong man to punch him in the gut and the guy did it before he was ready. He had to brace himself for the blow.”
“Less talky, more sucky.”
“Marcel Proust was a mama’s boy, it’s a proven fact.”
I push the dude’s face into my crotch. The rest of his words were garbled by my dick and ratty pubic hair.
“Genghis Khan had tiny feet. Marilyn Monroe was really a guy. The colon can hold ten gallons of dung before it explodes.”
Little did I know just how right he was.