Mars. It’s a hell of a long way from Huddersfield.
Flint Dugdale, blunt Yorkshireman and reality TV star, has used his large frame and ‘persuasive personality’ to take charge of Britain’s first manned mission to Mars.
Little does he know that the base – built by an advance party of incompetent robots – is not quite ready yet, with no food, no water and no doors. Worse, the ship’s scanners are picking up strange signals from the surface.
There is life down there. But will it be pleased to see him?
A laugh-out-loud science fiction comedy that's a cross between Red Dwarf and The Martian.
SFcrowsnest (Longest running online SF review website)
"Some parts of the book had me laughing so much I had to literally put it down and step away."
Full review: http://sfcrowsnest.org.uk/the-worst-man-on-mars-by-mark-roman-and-corben-duke/
Jemahl Evans Author Blog
"...some very British humour, rattling along at a goodly pace, with short chapters and unexpected twists galore."
Full review: http://jemahlevans.wixsite.com/jemahlevans/single-post/2016/09/08/Review-The-Worst-Man-on-Mars-by-Mark-Roman-and-Corben-Duke
Other books in this genre:
Deeply upset by rampant naughtiness, Santa Claus decides to launch nuclear missiles at the world. Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer argues he’s being too rash, that not all humans are bad.
Santa agrees to cancel the missile strike if he can find someone who will slay twenty-nine bad people by Christmas Eve. He settles on his kin Sam Mollusk of Poway, California.
Sam begins by killing the neighborhood terrorist. Medusa, lonely for millennia because of the snakes on her head, loves Sam and follows his every move.
Meanwhile, root-beer-loving Afghan terrorists Nar and Salah are hoping to gain membership in Poway’s Al Qaeda cell and become Tupperware salesmen as cover.
Can Sam prevent Al Qaeda’s fiendish plot and Santa’s nuclear holocaust? Will Sam survive shopping WalMart on Christmas Eve?
Plotless, senseless, with little or no redeeming social value, Resumes That Work satirizes the seemingly endless stream of “How to get a job” psychobabble foisted on the weary job seeker through books, websites, conferences, and workshops each year.
This irrational little tome turns the basic job-search concept on its head working off the assumption that job hunters would really rather do anything but grovel for work.
That being the case, fictitious author Dave Doolittle outlines strategies to embarrass, infuriate, and alienate human resources, interviewers, and bosses, thereby insuring the reader will both avoid gainful employment and have a great time doing it.
Sections are included on writing resumes and cover letters, how to behave at interviews, what to do if you already have a job, and testimonials from satisfied customers. Both text and absurd illustrations – which are a mix of cartoon and reality – are littered with allusions to literature, film, art, and popular culture, adding a further dimension for those who like to puzzle such things out.
It’s Scandal meets Seinfeld. A political comedy set in Washington, D.C.
It’s a book for people who like TV. A serial novel structured like a television show, with individual complete episodes that each also contribute to the ongoing story.
In 2011, the Obama Administration embarrassed itself by mistaking Colorado for Wyoming on the map of a speaking tour in western states. Voila, the Fifty States Program!--fifty new federal patronage jobs, one for each state, all housed in cubicles at the Eisenhower Executive Office Building adjacent to the White House.
The millennials in these jobs call each other by the name of their states, and none of them are exactly what you’d call on the ball. Wyoming--that’s our man Elliot Vance-- could qualify for the slacker Olympics. He’s the grand-nephew of former Secretary of State Cyrus Vance, but prior to being given a States job by his wealthy father he got kicked out of an English lit Ph.D. program for insisting on doing his dissertation on 1950s pulp author F. Bob Goddard. Elliot dates a WASP-American princess who’s pushing for marriage, and his two best friends are Delaware and Nebraska. His nemesis is Tara Travis, the slinky blonde Republican aide to Wyoming congressman Bull Wheeler.
In Episode 1 Elliot is blackmailed by Tara into flying to Laramie to do some actual work. It’s the first time he’s ever been to The State of Wyoming.
Sparty darted from the corner of the barn, his Dalmatian dots blurring like flurrying snow. He'd been idly nosing a Daddy Long Legs, a passel of sticks that wouldn't play. Steve's head jerked to follow his dog, and because his arm followed the trajectory, Old Bessie mooed "red alert!"
Odd. Sparty seldom left Steve's side for long when he was milking, content to supervise stoically. Outdoors the squirrels scampered in disquieted haste, to beat the winter that always seemed on its way. Sparty could chase them all day.
Odder yet, Sparty's bark was neither rascal-pursuit or guardian-like. Steve deciphered his dog's messages as readily as Jackie understood Brandon's baby whimpers and coos. Sparty sounded like boyhood Christmas.
"Sorry, Old Bess," Steve said with a pat to the cow's haunch, "but I gotta go reconnoiter. Sparty is playing the scout."
Steve lifted his cap to scruff his longish hair and then resettled it. He hoped the S aligned properly, his version of company best. Whoever was out there was new, not a neighbor. He may have heard tires crunch the gravel of the lane moments ago, plausible because the postman and pastor made rounds.
His recently-divorced and near-thirty son, Brandon, might be home from a date, stumbling in soon to do chores. More likely lurching toward his personal suite, their Winnebago parked between the two small yellow barns, to game.
Steve was unalarmed. It was, after all, his property and his dog, both long tethered to his soul. His wife, Jackie, was cooking massive quantities of homogenized, teen-pleasing fare at what she called her lively 'hood, the local high school cafeteria.
Steve strode purposefully to cross the milk barn threshold, yet his curiosity threatened to loft his cap into the breeze. Fall swirled the air with possibility. With winter's frosty temps, folks bought more milk, probably for vast quantities of hot cocoa and holiday baking. "Hurrah" for health benefits sabotaged by season-sanctioned treats and extra cash for the Breeden Dairy.
"Howdy. To what do I owe the pleasure?" Steve said to the figure backlit by midmorning sun, his tone friendly yet authoritarian. Cautious, strangely calm. Sparty's tongue vigorously worked the stranger's extended palm, as if he was lapping up crumbs. His body waggled more than it did for Brandon.
"You owe the pleasure to our awesome mom," the man boomed. He patted Sparty's head, stood, and extended his arm.
"Say what?" Steve took in the Tony Lamas that trumped his functionally forlorn rubber boots, his gut struck with emotion as if kicked.
"That's lovely, okay, look this way, marvellous, hold it right there." I look around me to locate the source of the words ringing in my ears as I approach the grand, stately venue of this year's biggest event in the fashion calendar.
It crosses my mind that I might be about to stumble upon a fashion shoot as I enter the piazza, only to discover a group of amateur photographers jostling for pole position to get pictures of anyone among the cluster of people crowding the entrance who might be wearing something vaguely fashionable or different.
I stop and watch with amusement the parasites with their rocket-fuelled egos, posing and posturing for the camera-wielding onlookers and their ever-extending and retracting lenses.
“Oh, honey, we're fine. Your dad is watching TV with Emily. I'm working on another blanket for Carol. Since my son isn't doing his part to give me more grandbabies.”
Less than a minute on the phone and already she’d managed to chastise him for not having kids. The woman was diabolical. “Mom—”
“Everett, the shower is all yours—oh! Sorry.” Corrine stopped when she noticed him on the phone.
But not before his mother heard her voice. “Oh, honey, did I hear a woman in the background?”
“Yeah, Mom, but—”
“Who is she? Are you dating? Do you have a girlfriend I don't know about?”
“She's…” He glanced up to her. She mouthed an apology. She glowed with freshly scrubbed pink skin while rubbing her hair with a towel. Her trim legs were showcased in short yoga shorts, a tank top, and no bra. He cleared his throat “…a friend.” He winked at her.
“What friend, honey? You didn't tell me about bringing a friend on your trip.”
“I wasn't aware at thirty-three I still had to clear my friends with you,” he said before he could think about how his words sounded.
Now, curled onto the love seat, Corrine choked on a sip of wine.
“Don't take that tone with me, young man.”
“Mom, I’m sorry. I didn't mean—”
“You've always been a good boy.”
“Well, other than the time you ordered three hundred dollars of porn on pay-per-view.”
He winced. Now he and Corrine were even with the embarrassing stories. When he dared to meet her eyes, he found her with her mouth agape, eyes wide. Could a hole just open up and swallow him now. “Mom! Listen!”
“You're on speaker. Say hello to Corrine Anderson. Corrine, meet my mother Barbara Harden.”
“Oh, hello, sweetheart! I'm Everett's proud mama.”
“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Harden.”
“None of that Mrs. Harden business. Call me Barbara. I insist. I apologize for the porn talk. I hope you won't think any less of my son. He was fourteen, after all, and fourteen-year-old boys have one hand in the fridge and the other in their underwear. My son was no diff—”
Everett scrambled for the end button, and for the first time ever in his life, he hung up on his mother. He braced his elbows on his knees, holding his head in his hands, and heard Corrine try to suppress a giggle.
“It wasn't that bad.”
“How nice of you to lie to make me feel better, but we both know that was the equivalent of having your breasts out at the water park.”
I was with three dogs, all from the same household: Ozzie, a bouncy, athletic and energetic bearded collie cross; Gem, a lovely-natured little Staffordshire bull terrier; and Sam, a rather overweight, but ultra-sociable Cairn terrier whose short, stumpy legs struggle to keep his belly from trailing the ground.
In a country park, high in the hills that overlook Paisley and Glasgow, we were following our regular route. As normal, I checked each field for sheep and cattle before entering. Except, on this occasion the cattle were not apparent from the entrance and were actually ensconced in an obscured dip, around a bend.
The three dogs were off-lead and slightly ahead of me as they charged through the open ground. Well, Ozzie and Gem, at least – Sam was mooching his way around as usual, searching for scraps of discarded picnic food and leaving his scent-mark on just about every raised tuft of grass that he passed.
I knew something was wrong the instant all three stopped what they were doing and stood still. Gem threw me a look from over her shoulder which I loosely translated as:
“We’ve got a problem …”
Confronting us now, and quickly rising to their feet, were about twenty cows. Worse - they each had their young with them.
I returned Gem’s look, hoping she’d interpret it as:
“Keep calm, and walk slowly towards the woods.”
At least in there, I reckoned, the cattle would have no room to charge us, and if we were seen to be walking away from them, hopefully they’d realise we intended no harm to their calves.
The most vociferous of the herd was by now no more than four metres from me. She was snorting and stamping her front hooves on the ground. The others were becoming more animated and vocal as they circled us. I shot a look towards the wooded area, some fifty metres away.
The alarmed baying of the group in front of us had alerted a splinter-herd, who had been resting-up in the shade of the very same woods.
Gem slowly turned her head towards me, a quizzical look on her face. I think she was saying:
“What now, wise-guy?”
‘What now?’ indeed.
Well, Ozzie, being of nimble foot, had already made himself scarce and scarpered towards the bottom end of the field. Gem, ever so trusting, was still awaiting instruction.
Sam, completely unaware of any possible danger, decided he’d like to make friends with the cattle. This was not helping, at all.
A car stopped on the road that bisects the park, and the driver came to the fence around a hundred metres away. From his vantage point, down the slope from where we were cornered, he could see a gap forming in the herd. He shouted to me and pointed to where we should run.
And run we did – Gem close by my side.
It was, as I’d read in magazine articles, ‘every man and dog for themselves,’ as we, the faithful Gem and myself, raced through the break in formation. Sam, however was still dithering around with his new ‘pals.’
“Come on Sam” I hollered. “BISCUITS!”
That did the trick. His little legs were a blur as he tried to catch up, more afraid of missing out on a treat than the danger of being trampled and kicked to death by an irate cow or two.
We quickly reached the sanctuary of the road, where Ozzie was waiting:
“What kept you?” I could imagine him panting.
This is a story about a woman named Kenzie.
A woman who knows what she wants and likes things just the way they are, thank you very much.
This is also a story about a man named Max. Max can be a real pain in the ass.
And finally, this is a story about Dash, ex-husband extraordinaire, who likes to get down to the Scissor Sisters and parties a little too much.
And Katie, the best friend who parties far too much and can expertly defend herself against sexual harassment accusations.
And Claudia, sister, mother and head of the school parent's association, long time tea drinker. The chalk to Kenzie's cheese.
And Michael, the one that got away.
Must Be Quacking Up
"I don't think so Kenz." he said, no grimace or frown, just a serious look on his face, parental almost. Condescending was another word that came to mind.
'Oh, ok, no worries." she laughed to cover her embarrassment but she knew her face looked as if she had just played the 50-minute game of soccer in the sun instead of her niece.
"Ok well see you round." she shook her arm from where he still grasped her and started for the car, pretty sure she was walking weird, knowing she was. There was something distinctly duck like about her walk, dear god she was waddling. Yep definitely a waddle. What the hell was wrong with her?
"Kenzie wait." he followed her.
Even if she ran she wouldn't be able to lose him, especially now that she had the speed and agility of Huey, Dewey and Louie combined, or maybe it was just Donald, who would be the most uncoordinated out of the four she pondered to herself idiotically.
She stopped, not sure what he was going to say but wishing the ground would swallow her up, grateful her family hadn't overheard her be shot down so brutally, when she didn't even want to hang out with this with this guy, well at least she didn't think she did 5 minutes ago.
Oh god, she thought, Dash witnessing this would be even worse, she could imagine how much he would torture her.
The Definitive Humor-Writing Handbook From A Top Comedy Pro
This easy-to-follow guide, written by one of the world's most successful humor writers, lays out a clear system for creating funny ideas that get big, milk-coming-out-of-your-nose laughs, reliably and repeatably. You'll learn...
* The 3 sure-fire ways to generate material
* The 11 different kinds of jokes and how to tell them
* The secret to permanently overcoming writer's block
* And many more tips, tricks, and techniques
Table of Contents
Use the techniques in this book to reliably create top-notch humor writing (page 9)
2 Your Brain's Comedy Engine
Access both hemispheres of your brain to eliminate writer's block and tap an endless reserve of comedy ideas (page 19)
3 The Humor Writer's Biggest Problem
Overcome this one devastating obstacle to reach the widest possible audience (page 27)
4 How To Get Laughs
Understand the different kinds of laughs, and how to generate the best one (page 37)
6 Subtext: The Secret Ingredient
Infuse your humor with this vital component to create writing that makes people laugh (page 51)
6 The 11 Funny Filters
Create any joke using the 11 fundamental building blocks of humor (page 61)
Funny Filter 1: Irony (page 62)
Funny Filter 2: Character (page 64)
Funny Filter 3: Shock (page 70)
Funny Filter 4: Hyperbole (page 74)
Funny Filter 5: Wordplay (page 77)
Funny Filter 6: Reference (page 81)
Funny Filter 7: Madcap (page 85)
Funny Filter 8: Parody (page 90)
Funny Filter 9: Analogy 9(page 4)
Funny Filter 10: Misplaced Focus (page 96)
Funny Filter 11: Metahumor (page 99)
7 Using The Funny Filters
Layer the building blocks to create increasingly hilarious jokes (page 105)
8 Process Overview
Master this simple system to become a prolific humor writer (page 127)
Click "Look inside" to see more!
Chat with Authors
I was a slow starter. I didn't even read confidently until I was about seven. Then I discovered Paddington Bear and from then on I...
In the late 1990s, my cousin Jacquelin Thomas became a published author. I was so inspired by her stories and style of writing that in...
I started to write only recently. I had my nose in a book since I was a child, and whilst seeing my name in print...
If I had to blame someone for my early obsession with writing, it would likely be my older sister. When we were young, her and...
Hop on Lenka's List Bandwagon
Summer Of 68: A Zombie Novel by Kevin Millikin Narrator: Rick Gregory Published by Kevin Millikin on 09-07-17 Genres: Horror , Post-Apocalyptic , Zombies Length:
The following letter came to me via The Internet. It is a non-official satirical response written presumably by white students to black students attending Oxford’s
My very first novel, Mackenzie: An Assassin's Tale, is now available in print. myBook.to/MackenzieAssasin The snippet below is from a transitional moment when Mackenzie starts