[toni's note: today I am letting Bobbie Faye Sumrall guest blog because frankly, she's scary and she threatened me.]
Okay, look, people, you probably don't know me. Unless you've read this crazy writer's first book, and I am here to tell you, she's seriously getting on my nerves. Like, bouncing up and down on the last one with a hacksaw in her hand. How in the hell her family puts up with her is a shear freaking miracle. You people need to do an intervention. Soon. Or I'm going to, and it won't be pretty.
It's not bad enough that she followed me around and then wrote a book about it. I'm kinda used to people following me around, and just because things happen to accidentally blow up whenever I sort of happen to be in the area does not mean that it was my fault, and really, I am tired of being on the five o'clock news. And could they follow me around when I'm dressed like a sane person? Nooooo, that would be too nice. They wait until all hell breaks loose and I have crap to wear and look like a reject from Ho's R Us clothing line and of course, bad hair from hell, and that's when they put my photo up on the TV. But this Toni? She's worse than the rest of them combined, because she's all in my freaking life every time I turn around and one of these days, I'm going to drop-kick her ass across the state, because I have about had enough.
I thought that after the first book, she'd get her fill. Sure, it was kinda crazy and lots of people chasing me and shooting and you know, unhappy with me in general (though I am hard-pressed at times to tell the difference) but I thought this was a one-time thing. She'd get her story, go write it and go away. Then she followed me around again and this one was even crazier; I was like the Pied Piper to the Psycho & Demented set, and did she have the common sense to leave me alone? What do you think? Do writers even have common sense? Apparently not, because there she was, squatting next to me, getting shot at, and I tried to tell her to go home, go do something useful, like paint her bedroom, but she just kept taking notes as the bullets whizzed by and it is not my fault that she got nicked a couple of times, damnit. I can only do so much.
So then I thought, fine... no one's going to like the first book and she'll get discouraged and go the fuck away. But did that happen? No. You freaking people are going to kill me. Some of you have actually reviewed the damned book! And you liked it! And you're encouraging her! I mean, last week? Last week she was lying prone on her office floor, freaking out because she was certain no one on the planet was going to even read the damned thing, much less like it, and I have to say, as cruel as it sounds, that would have suited me just damned fine, because then she'd have been out of my hair. Permanently. Instead, this weekend, your Publisher's Weekly goes and posts this fantastic review . And not just any old fantastic review, but a freaking starred review. And now? She will not shut up about the damned thing. I swear to God, I had to talk her out of tattooing it on her forehead. I mean, look at it:
*Bobbie Faye's Very (very, very, very) Bad Day* Toni McGee Causey. St. Martin's Griffin, $12.95 paper (320p) ISBN
Set in Lake Charles, La., Causey's hilarious, pitch-perfect debut chronicles one day in the life of 28-year-old Bobbie Faye Sumrall, a
magnet for mayhem who feels "a day without disaster would be a day in
someone else's life." For starters, a faulty washing machine floods the
trailer home she shares with her five-year-old niece. Then she learns
that kidnappers are holding Roy, her rogue of a younger brother, for
ransom and want nothing less than the tiara inherited from her mother
that Bobbie Faye plans to wear as the queen of the upcoming
pirate-themed Contraband Days Festival. After a simple bank trip turns
into a nightmare and thieves get away with the tiara, Bobbie Faye
commandeers a truck and its hunky driver, Trevor, for a wild chase
through bayou country. Friends cheer her on, while others take bets on
her next calamity. Causey doesn't miss a beat in this wonderful, wacky
celebration of Southern eccentricity. /(May)/
Now she's already planning to follow me around for the rest of my frigging life. I am never going to be rid of her, am I?
I am serious. You people better do something about this. Quick. Because if she keeps this up, she's going to get her ass shot and it won't be my fault. I cannot help it if I am a magnet for disaster. I have a talent for "wrong place, wrong time" -- if that were a category on the SAT exam? I'd make a fucking perfect score. So do something. Warn her. Kidnap her. Teach her how to knit. I don't care, just get her the hell out of my life.
Bobbie Faye Sumrall