For those who care, Success is running a sweet eight lengths ahead, but we don't count the cabbage until the nag comes in.
Mmmm, just look at that Apple Brown Betty. Wait, I'm getting off topic. For fiction writers, lies are stock in trade. Freely confessed and in fact assumed, they're spun to provide entertainment. For guys like the ex-Gerry Thomas, life itself is a deception, a claim to brilliance he didn't possess. I had considered linking his obit here when he died in mid-July, and I'm now righteously smug that I didn't. For this scheming heretic and shameful pretender lied for years about inventing the TV dinner. (ht: Jeff Jarvis)
I can only imagine how many posh restaurant tables Thomas scored, how many gorgeous mistresses he bedded, and how many keys to cities adorned his rec room wall during his harvest of lies. Still I must leave him and the crimpy foil bastards of his untruth to return to crafting my own falsehoods. The kind of dishonesty I will be proud and delighted to have publicly exposed.
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