Once in a while the Complete and Total Loser gets the idea of writing a book. How wonderful it would be, the Loser thinks, to produce a slab of bound paper with ink markings on pages that readers could look at and hear voices and receive images from, things that would entertain their dull hours and even make them form ideas that would subtly change their lives. He likes the notion that centuries after his death his words could inspire someone to strive to live a life previously unconsidered, that quotes from his work would win arguments or set young minds on fire. Power. Relative immortality.
But the Loser knows that his intelligence and ability are second rate and his confidence and discipline are far below average; that time has passed and his writing style has become ponderous, unimaginative, and is often seen as condescending to readers who comprehend his simple insights long before he's finished laying them out.
Nonetheless, he has, in his manic, caffeine-fueled moments, aspirations. The Loser knows he'd need a gimmick of some sort. His latest is to write a novel that would be upbeat, hilarious, and helpful to its readers, the kind people read twice and buy for friends. The title would appear in large bold block letters on a white cover and be this: Fuck You.