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Remember when I used to do Thursday News of the Absurd Will Someone Please Write This Book Inspirational Moments (TNoftheAWSWTBIM)? Oh, the fun we could have with ZOMBIE ANTS...

I REALLY REALLY want this week's Thursday News of the Absurd Will Someone Write Me This Book Inspirational Moment (ThNoftheAWSWTBIM) to exist for reals and for trues.

From YahooNews and Reuters:

Funeral home steps in the stop the "grim eater"

Apparently, a funeral home in New Zealand had to step in after noticing a man who attended up to four funerals a week, despite obviously not knowing the deceased. Why? The guy carried a backpack full of Tupperware; when mourners weren't looking, he'd steal the funeral food and bring it home.

This is awesome. Genius. You gotta love someone who says, "You know who deserves to be ripped off? People with recently dead relatives! Heh heh. Mourning suckahs."

But I don't want him to be a bad guy. Here's what I want:

Elaine is a "normal" high school student who dresses all in black, permanently in mourning over the stupid problems caused by stupid people in the world. She's so full of angst and drama that her parents (who are good parents but who don't take her seriously) have started calling her "Morbidia." One day, she wanders into a funeral. Nobody bothers her, nobody looks at her strangely, and everyone is dressed in black. So Morbidia starts going to funerals whenever she can.

But after a while, Morbidia notices this other kid, the one with the backpack. He's often there, too, and like Morbidia can tell he doesn't know the dead people either. She sees him pretending to pay his respects and then filling his Tupperware. Morbidia is fascinated.

And so they meet, Morbidia and the Grim Eater. And what follows is a quirky, darkly humorous, bizarrely romantic story (like Six Feet Under* in a YA).

It must be written. No! I am already writing two books. One of you has to do it.

Crap. Now I'm obsessed. Save me.

*Oh, how I (who watch next to no television) miss Six Feet Under and my six free months of HBO. Sigh. Peter Krause, where have ye gone?

It's been a while since I had a good Thursday News of the Absurd Will Someone Please Write This Book Inspirational Moment, (ThNoftheAWSPWTBIM). I couldn't pass this one up.

From the New York Times via AP:

Flood of Frogs Shuts Down Major Greek Highway

Apparently, Greek officials had to shut down a major highway in the north of Greece this week because more than a million frogs were hopping in the street.

First, the best thing about this article is that the author clearly had a field day with the words "large group" and Thesaurus.com.

Officials said the frogs had probably left a nearby lake in search of food. Yeah, right. All more than a million of them. At once. And they decided tarmac was their best bet.

Obviously, there are two more plausible explanations:

1. Comic dark magic. Because if it were real dark magic, the frogs would be dead or headless or something. I might love a book written from the frogs' point of view. I mean, nobody ever considers how frogs (or locusts, for that matter) feel about being dragged from place to place just because they're annoying and great punishment.
2. The gods are angry at the highway. Or, they are angry at young Niko, the new Chief Road Engineer, who has declared that his new highway tarmac material is "stronger than the gods" and can withstand any kind of weather. The trouble is: he's right. No matter what the gods throw at it -- rain, blizzard, lightning, locusts -- the highway stay open.

What do you think?

So, I'm training for this marathon. Thor bought me this chip that you tie to your shoe. It sends messages to your iPod and computer voice comes on and tells you how far you've gone and how fast you are going: "You have been running for THREE minutes. You have gone POINT FOUR miles." It also came with this running coaching mix, complete with the voice of many-marathon-winner Alberto Salazar telling you when to speed up and when to take a break and how fabulous you are for running at all.

I love this voice. Alberto (whom I saw win the New York Marathon in the 80s, so he knows his stuff) starts with a motivational speech about getting out the door. Then he says, "Ready? Go!" and great warm up music comes on. I'm running along, and suddenly, there's Alberto telling me, "You're doing great. Now I want you to speed up. Picture your opponent running ahead of you. Ready? Sprint!" Appropriately upbeat music comes on and I sprint, encouraged by Alberto, "You are so fast!"

I want this for writing. I want a writing coaching mix. I want to put on my headphones and hear, say, Salman Rushdie: "You are going to have a great writing day. You are a brilliant and prolific writer. Ready? Open your laptop. Go!" and then hear good writing music. I type and type and on comes, "You're doing great. Only thirty minutes left. Keep writing!" When I'm done, I want him to say, "Wow. Doesn't that feel good? Take a break. Go get some coffee and I'll meet you back here in ten minutes. Don't be late!" and then play "Praise You" by Fatboy Slim, like Alberto does at the end of the sprints.

I want a chip like I have for my shoe, but for the computer, so I can press a button and hear the computer voice: "You have been writing for THIRTY-FIVE minutes. You have written ONE THOUSAND words. You have updated your status ZERO times. Good job!"

Who will write invent me this book thingamajig?

In today's Thursday News of the Absurd Will Someone Please Write This Book Inspirational Moment (TNoftheAWSPWTBIM), I turn yarn-loving samaritans into a gang of hooligans.

From Richard Degener at press ofAtlanticCity.com:

A good yarn? West Cape May tries to unravel the mystery of the midnight knitter

Apparently, someone was going around West Cape May in the wee hours of the night decorating signposts and tree trunks with elaborately knit leg warmers. In the latest developments, an anonymous group known as Salty Knits took credit. But now the knit cozies have disappeared.

Everyone assumed the anonymous knitters were trying to beautify the city. But what if they weren't? What if the bad guys were a group of salty knitters bent on the destruction of life as they know it in Cape May?

The question is how. How will dressing trees and signs up in silly sweaters doom everyone? What can the rival gang of do-good, mystery-solving quilters do to stop them?

Most importantly, who will write me this book?

I write fiction. Which means I lie.

Last Tuesday I implied on Facebook that I had a date with LeBron James. This was untrue. I did go see the Pistons play the Cavaliers that night, but it is entirely possible, I suppose, that LeBron failed to notice me, despite the fact that our seats were, no joke, in the SAME ROOM where he was playing basketball.

A "friend" dared to imply that the idea of LeBron James taking me out on a date was preposterous.

It is preposterous. It's also a terrible lie, for a couple of reasons (warning: writing metaphor ahead):

1. I had no details. The key to a good lie is in the details. If you make the scene so vivid that people can't help but picture it in their heads, they'll believe it. The more specific the details, the better. Make them see, smell, taste, hear, and touch it.

2. I didn't commit. Don't imply: insist. If you are tentative in your lie, it'll never work. You have to throw your whole heart into it and never doubt for a minute that it will be believed.

3. It wasn't big enough. Or, it was too big. You have to find the balance between mundane and delusional. If your lie goes just slightly farther than is believable, it's more likely to work. If your story is something everyone has done or experienced, nobody's going to care if it's true or not. Make it extra-ordinary, a millimeter beyond realistic.

4. It was illogical. I mean, I am so far out of LeBron's league* it's simply not plausible that I would date him. Plus, I'm married. Your story has to stick together without gaping holes or contradictions.

5. And lastly, never fess up. Once you have people believing you, once you've drawn them into your invention, you can't betray their trust. You can't say, "Remember when I said...? Well, really, er, I meant this instead." Don't backtrack or change stories midstream. You won't only lose them on this lie, you'll lose them forever.

So, tell me. What kind of lie gets you every time?

* Even if I do lower my stock with bad "in his league" puns.

Honest to goodness, sometimes the Thursday News of the Absurd choices just write themselves.

From YahooNews and the AP:

Fire in Houston blamed on inflatable gorilla

"Fire department officials said an out-of-control inflatable gorilla was blamed for a rooftop blaze at a Houston shopping center."

I think the only question is this: what made him so mad???

Today's Thursday News of the Absurd Will Someone Please Write This Book Inspirational Moment (TNoftheAWSWMTBIM) comes from a dinner conversation about poor Destructo's misunderstanding of death and it can be summed up in two words:

Zombie Grandma

Because it would be so hard, wouldn't it? Your grandma still wants to love on you, to bake you cookies, to take you to tea. You love her, of course, and you don't want to hurt her feelings. But, dude, she's undead, and honestly, she's starting to smell even funnier than she did when she was alive.

And now, for your listening pleasure, from musical and songwriting genius Jonathan Coulton, the greatest zombie song evah, performed in ZSL (zombie sign language) by someone else.

What better way to celebrate absurd books on Thursday than with The Bookseller's 2009 Diagram Prize for Oddest Title of the Year?

Here are some of the finalists:

Afterthoughts of a Worm Hunter (David Crompton)

Collectible Spoons of the Third Reich (James A Yannes)

Crocheting Adventures with Hyperbolic Planes (A K Peters), and

The Changing World of Inflammatory Bowel Disease (Ellen Scherl, Maria Dubinsky)

The first one raises all sorts of ideas for first lines ("Look! It's growing back! Now we can have seconds!"). But my favorite has to be...

Governing Lethal Behavior in Autonomous Robots (Ronald C Arkin)

Because, um, WHY? What the heck happened over at the Arkin lab that made Ronald an expert in governing lethal behavior in robots? Is he a robot expert, or can we expect a Governing Lethal Behavior in... series?

If you need inspiration or giggles, check out Wikipedia's list of past winners.

And, if lethal robots aren't your cup of tea, maybe you could write me the story behind Gary Leon's 2005 winning title:

People Who Don't Know They're Dead: How They Attach Themselves to Unsuspecting Bystanders and What To Do About It.

Because I have always wondered.

We interrupt to bring you this week's Thursday News of the Absurd Will Someone Please Write This Book Inspirational Moment. We are going to be religious about our TNoftheAWSPWTBIMs from now on, due to a comment from a non-writer friend that Jacqui's Room is "hilarious, except when you talk about, you know, writing."

Leaving the fact that this means I am funny approximately 1% of the time, there's a new grim reaper in town and I love this story idea.

From YahooNews & Reuters:

Doctor casts new light on cat that can predict death

In 2007, scientists released a paper describing Oscar, a nursing home cat who can sense death coming; he consistently curls up in bed with people right before they die. Now the doctors who broke the story are concerned Oscar has gotten an unwarranted reputation for being a harbinger of doom, when really he's just trying to comfort people.

Yeah. Right. Even I, a lifelong cat lover, have to scoff. A cat who wants to comfort humans?

Oscar is clearly killing these people. OR, Oscar can sense death coming, because Oscar is Death. And that is the book I want. What if Death were not a skeletal or pale-faced hooded ghoul? Because who wouldn't run from that? If Death really wants to trap as many folks as possible, he'd appear as a totally adorable kitty-witty.

But outside the nursing home where they recognize him, Death gets no respect. He comes to take people's souls and lay his cold paws upon them and they all pet him and forget how to say the 'l' sound.

"Oh, is the widdle kitty twying to --"

Death tries to growl, "I am NOT a widdle kitty. I am the Gwim Weaper." But the people just giggle and offer him milk.

Okay, maybe it's not a book. Maybe it's a Monty Python sketch. Or maybe you have a better idea.

And if it doesn't make you laugh, think of it this way: I could be, you know, talking about writing.

... she was a Sinosauropteryx,
With colored feathers on her head
Stripes of black and white and red.

She would meringue
And feast on raw meat.
But while she watched the feathers grow
They were always just for show.

She'd stay up late at night,
Trying to take flight
While the T-Rexes and the raptors
All learned how to fight.

In the Cretaceous,
Cretaceous-era
The hottest thing til the Sahara
In the Cretaceous,
Cretaceous-era
Sharp claws and slashin' were the latest fashion
But feathers?
'head of her time.

Her name was Lola,
She was a Sinosauropteryx,
But that was 100 million years ago
Before the disco balls did glow.

Now it's a blingfest,
But not for Lola,
Still in her fossilized mud bed
Faded feathers on her head

She lays there all alone
And Idol never phones
In the age of rhinestones and sequins
She is left with bones.

In the Cretaceous,
Cretaceous-era
Sharp claws and slashin' were the latest fashion
But feathers?
Go take a look.
You're on the hook.
Write me this book.

This week's Thursday News of the Absurd Will Someone Please Write This Book Inspirational Moment (TNoftheAWSWTBIM) happened this morning.

4:57am Destructo awakens, gets fully dressed, and heads downstairs. When confronted with "What are you doing?!" he falls to the floor screaming, "I HUNGY!" I bring Destructo milk and send Thor in to get him back to sleep.

5:00am Tink crawls into bed with me, falls back asleep, and steals all the covers.

6:00am Thor's alarm clock beeps. I reach over Tink and hit it blindly. It stops.

6:10am Alarm clock beeps again. I hit it harder. It stops.

6:15am Alarm clock beeps again. I get up and pound the darn thing. I press every button. It stops.

6:20am Alarm clock beeps again. I growl, beat on it again, rip the cord out of the socket, and toss the clock to the floor. It stops.

6:30am Alarm clock makes high-pitched shrieking sound. I shake it, yelling "WHAT THE HECK?!" I flip every switch, hit every button, and smack the display (which is dark, because the thing is UNPLUGGED). It stops.

6:35am Tink is giggling uncontrollably. "Mama's in a war with Dada's clock." We get up.

Time passes. We get dressed, make breakfast, etc.

7:15am The obviously haunted alarm clock STARTS BEEPING AGAIN. I yell, "GAH!" Tink cracks up. Destructo, thinking it's the fire alarm, tries to evacuate.

7:16am Thor comes downstairs and says, "What did you do to my clock?"

"It hates us," Tink says.

"It's going to chase us to school," I say, picturing the clock tipping back and forth on it's little "feet," beeping angrily.

"This is totally a book," she says.

And she's right. The angry alarm clock's revenge.

Or, maybe it's sad that I hit it, so it chases me all day beeping until I apologize.

Or...well, what do you think? And who will write me this book?

It happened again. I found a fabulous Thursday News of the Absurd Will Someone Please Write This Book Inspirational Moment (TNoftheAWSPWTBIM) and, well, it's just too good a picture book not to give it a try myself. Now I am obsessed.

But this cracks me up.

From WHDH-TV news in Boston:

East Boston cat called to jury duty

Apparently Sal, the feline pet of the Esposito family, received a letter demanding that he appear for jury duty. His owner wrote to explain that he's, well, a cat, and to file for his disqualification of service. The verdict from the jury commissioner? DENIED. Now Sal has to have his day in court or face punishment.

I love this mostly because I love stories in which bureaucracy acts in idiotic ways but nobody's life is actually ruined. What is the jury commissioner thinking?! HE'S A CAT!

What if Sal shows up in court, expecting to be sent home immediately, and nothing happens? What if he's chosen for a jury? What if he falls in love with the legal system and decides to become a judge himself?

There's a book here. I don't know what it is, but maybe you do. Will someone please write it for me?

Here is the good news: This week's Thursday News of the Absurd Will Someone Please Write Me This Book Inspirational Moment (TNoftheAWSPWTBIM) is hilarious and different and it is going to make an awesome book.

Here is the bad news: I had this post all written and then The Mighty Thor in his infinite wisdom read the idea and said, "You have to write that."

"Ha ha," I said. "Like I need something else on my To Write list."

And then he told me what he was thinking for the title of the first chapter and it was, well, I can't tell you what it was, but it was code for "Oh My Freaking Goodness I Have to Write This Book" and I haven't had a minute's peace from the voice in my head since (or from my husband, who apparently thinks, despite living with me for 16 years, that one thinks of a book idea Saturday, decides to write it Sunday, and has it written by Thursday).

All of which is to say:
1. There is no inspiration for you today because for the first time ever, I am keeping it for me.
2. I am doing NaNoWriMo after all. Sigh. This is the ugly news, because I already have ten million things I am supposed to do next month. There goes November.
3. I have to go write now.

This week's Thursday News of the Absurd Will Someone Please Write This Book Inspirational Moment (TNoftheAWSPWTBIM) is photographic.

On the walk to Tink's school today, cutting through undergraduate student housing, I saw this:

In case you can't tell, that's bike parking, and it's holding a bike, a bike, a bike, a carpet, a bike, and a bike.

Other people speculated that the carpet had been washed and was set there to dry. Muggles, all of them.

Because it's clearly magic. You can't just park those things anywhere, you know.

What I didn't understand, though, is why it wasn't locked. I mean, I know it's a beige Stainmaster cheapie and not an elaborate oriental, but won't someone steal it?

And then it occurred to me: someone already has.

Who will write me this book?

Oh, happy is the Thursday when there is hilarity in the odd news. And even happier when said news is not obscene AND it would make, I think, an awesome middle grade chapter book.

This is your Thursday News of the Absurd Will Someone Please Write This Book Inspirational Moment (TNoftheAWSPWTBIM).

From Reuters India
(Reporting by Paul Casciato; Editing by Steve Addison):

UK girl stopped from selling granny online

Apparently, 10 year old Zoe Pemberton tried this week to auction her grandmother off on Ebay. She described her grandma as "annoying and moaning a lot" but "cuddly." My favorite part? 27 people bid for her before Ebay reminded everyone that grandma trafficking is illegal.

There are two books here. First, you have a comedy about Zoe's efforts to get rid of her grandmother. Selling her on Ebay is only the tip of the iceberg. She also tries to marry her off to their neighbor Sheldon, attempting to get the senile old man to say "I do" before her grandmother figures out what is going on. She scatters ElderTour brochures around the house and fiddles with the GPS on Granny's wheelchair.

OR, and this is the one I want, what if it went through? What if you bought yourself a grandma on Ebay? You order her, save up, send all the money you saved plus some you stole from the change jar on dad's dresser, and ten days later, there's a knock at the door. Mom answers, and in walks Granny. Turns out she's thrilled to escape the brat who sold her and refuses to leave. So, like the stray dog you brought home in second grade, they let you keep her, but you have to take care of her. And turns out she is just as cuddly, but also just as annoying and moaning as advertised.

For some reason, I am picturing this in journal form. No! It's letters to the grandma whom Granny Ebay is replacing (she had a late life need for adventure and is off disabling land mines in Laos).

Poor Granny Ebay. Who will write me this book?

Ever walk down the street and see something that is in no way supposed to be silly, but it strikes you in a punny way and makes you giggle? And then the rest of the day, you're thinking of silly puns and stories about it and giggling to yourself at inappropriate moments? No? Oh. Hmm.

Anyway, this week, while pondering the Thursday News of the Absurd Will Someone Please Write This Book Inspirational Moment (TNoftheAWSWTBIM), I saw this:

And I thought, "Yes. I AM a giant, hardy mum." And I giggled. And then I thought of Hagrid, and his giant hardy mum. And then I wondered about the Hardy Boys, and what their mum was like.

And then I thought of the Hardy Boys being trapped somewhere, in danger, until the ceiling crashes open and their giant Hardy mum saves them.

And then I thought, "No, this is a picture book." Something along the lines of Liz Rosenberg & Stephen Gammell's Monster Mama, but even goofier. A crowd of giant, crime-fighting hardy mums who are also Boy Scout Troop leaders?

What do you think? Please tell me you don't just see flowers.

Really, some days the odd news is already so close to a TNoftheAWSPWTBIM book that all I can do is quote.

According to YahooNews and the AP:

Florida boaters urged to look out for missing robot

SARASOTA, Fla. – Scientists on Florida's Gulf Coast are trying to find an underwater robot that has mysteriously vanished.

Apparently, the robot took a 30,000 algae detector and ran away. The best part? His name is Waldo. So he's got all of Florida playing a giant game of Where's Waldo?

I want a picture book, from the robot's point of view. Tired of being a slave to man, he escapes. Inspired by his adventures and feeling for his fellow electronics in bondage, he goes around the country liberating the other robots. People wake up to find their iPhones and alarm clocks have fled the coop. The suburbs are full of roaming Roombas refusing to return to vacuuming. Everything automated quits on the humans, who are left baffled and helpless (a la the officer holding a lily pad at the end of David Wiesner's Tuesday). As the book ends, we see the machines lounging on a beach next to a statue of Waldo, the hero who started the revolution.

Who will write me this book?

Welcome to this week's Thursday News of the Absurd Will Someone Please Write This Book Inspirational Moment (TNoftheAWSPWTBIM), in which I make A.A.Milne turn over in his grave.

from the AP:

Winnie the Pooh pulls bank job

Apparently, Winnie the Pooh has robbed a bank in Chicago. Okay, not really. Somebody robbed a bank wearing a Winne the Pooh sweatshirt.* I am not sure why this is news; presumably the "Winnie the Pooh bandit" will change clothes, making his sweatshirt a poor primary clue for catching him, but let's go with it.

What if it really WAS Winnie the Pooh? In fact, what if the whole Hundred Acre Wood crowd decided they were tired of hunting heffalumps and eating thistles and decided to take Chicago by storm? Sick of Al Capone getting all the Chicago mafia credit, the Hundred Acre Gang hits the streets. I'm picturing them all bellying up to a bar under the El somewhere, plotting the heist. They even sound like gang names: "Piglet," "Roo," and "The Rabbit." Will police ever catch up with "Owl," the mastermind behind it all? Can Tigger control his trigger finger? Who's that on Eeyore's tail?

It all comes to a head, of course, when the gang from Farmer McGregor's garden takes Pooh and his friends down. The Hundred Acre Gang are carted off to the slammer while darn goody-goody trio Flopsy, Mopsy, and Cottontail dine on bread and cream and blackberries for supper, as usual.

Who will write me this book?


* Why is it so cold in Chicago in August that people are wearing sweatshirts???

Today, I am off to L.A., but not before I tell you about the beekeeper's picnic, which is today's Thursday News of the Absurd Will Someone Please Write This Book Inspirational Moment.

You may remember Tinkerbell's good friend Belinda, of "wake me up before you go to fairyland" fame.* Her family keeps bees and this story comes from them.**

Last week, Belinda's dad decided to collect the honey from their hives, so he moved the hives into their garage, hoping to separate the hives from the bees who can be, of course, protective of such things. But he forgot to shut the garage door. So when Belinda's family came back, the bees had all moved into the garage, swarming and buzzing and generally having a great time in a nice, enclosed, shady place. Belinda's dad tried several ideas, but couldn't separate the bees from their hives. Eventually, he had to move the hives back outside, wait for the bees to follow, and then grab each hive, sneak around to the back of the house, enter through the back door, and drag the (hopefully bee-free) hive through the house back to the garage. There was some marital disagreement about whether such activities left a sticky trail of honey on the floor. But the part I really like is that the bees were apparently baffled. Where did the hives go? As Belinda's dad put it, they were all asking the leaders, "Dude, you were doing the 'come here' dance. Where's the hive?"

I want a picture book from the bees' perspective. I want the bees just trying to have a nice picnic and an increasingly overwhelmed beekeeper trying to outwit them. I want a NYC bee shouting, "Leonard! What's your problem? You did the dance. I came. Where's the goods?" I want David Small to illustrate in pen and watercolor with the kind of awesome details he's so good at. I want the race through the house to include every room, with bees primping and powder-puffing in the bathroom and face-to-face staring at the fish in the aquarium. And I want the book to end with Belinda's baffled mom coming home and finding everyone -- kids, dad, bees, dog, whoever -- asleep, jars of honey everywhere, and a trail of honey from the back door, through the whole house, ending in the garage.

Who will write me this book???

* Not her real name.
** But the book I want would greatly exaggerate the story, of course.

This week's Thursday inspirational moment (TNoftheAWSPWTBIM) AND A CHALLENGE FOR YOU are brought to you by San Jose State University's Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest, which asks participants to submit the worst opening sentences possible to a fictional novel.*

Here's my favorite, from Eric Rice of Wisconsin, winner in the detective category:

She walked into my office on legs as long as one of those long-legged birds that you see in Florida the pink ones, not the white ones except that she was standing on both of them, not just one of them, like those birds, the pink ones, and she wasn't wearing pink, but I knew right away that she was trouble, which those birds usually aren't.

This got me thinking. What would be the worst possible opening sentence for a picture book?

Fuzzy the Bunny lived with his Mama Bunny, Papa Bunny, and his sister, Roadkill, in a hutch at the base of a tall oak tree.

When Marky Sanford was a little boy, there was only one thing he wanted more than to be governor of South Carolina.

A is for Amyotrophic lateral sclerosis. B is for Brain tumor. (from A Child's Alphabet of Things That Can Kill Your Parents)

These are bad. But we can do worse.

ATTENTION MILLIONS OF VISITORS TO JACQUI'S ROOM!

I challenge you: write me the worst possible first sentence of a picture book.

This is worthy of a font color change. Welcome to JACQUI'S WORST FIRST LINE EVER CONTEST.

THE RULES:
1. No fair lifting the actual first lines of Rainbow Fish.
2. Entries should be posted in the comments here.
3. Entries must be received by July 15.
4. Winners will receive prizes. Good ones. Like books and toys and possibly some other stuff, depending on what I find around here. Details to follow.
5. Judges panel will consist of me, The Mighty Thor, and my sister, Monkey Girl. Please feel free to offer opinions as to your favorites as well.

Do. Your. Worst. And spread the news.

* See all winners here.

Holes, Part One
As in, there are gaping holes of suck in the manuscript for The Tale of Ant and I promised a draft to my agent by Friday. Have I mentioned that my agent is a black belt? Blogging will be sparse until said gaping holes of suck are plugged with some acceptable drivel.

Holes, Part Two
As in the middle of donuts. I am eating them by the bucketful. See Part One.

Holes, Part Three
As in this week's Thursday News of the Absurd Will Someone Please Write This Book Inspirational Moment (TNoftheAWSPWTBIM).

From Yahoo News and the AP (article by Joseph Marks, AP writer):

Dead Sea Peril: Sinkholes Swallow Up the Unwary

"EIN GEDI, Israel – Eli Raz was peering into a narrow hole in the Dead Sea shore when the earth opened up and swallowed him."

For real. He got sucked into a 30-foot-deep pit from out of which it took rescuers 14 hours to dig him. Apparently, these "underground craters can open up in an instant, sucking in whatever lies above and leaving the surrounding area looking like an earthquake zone."

Here's the second craziest part (after the whole THE EARTH FREAKING ATE HIM bit): he's alive. He was conscious the whole time and even wrote his will on a postcard he had with him. So the sand doesn't just swallow you; it takes you somewhere that you can see.

And -- because what's a good story without a biblical reference? -- it's all happening on the exact land that was Sodom and Gomorrah.

So you know where these people are ending up, right? Sodom and Gomorrah. In biblical times.

There's a cheesy message book here in which Earth is eating people and sending them back to simpler times in an aggressive attempt to stop people from destroying her completely (this fits also because the sinkholes are in part a result of water over-use in the region).

You could write that one. OR, you could write me the story of the kids who find the portal and get addicted to the time travel. They keep diving into the sand and acting with wild abandon down there in partyville because it seems so unreal. Every time they get back, not much time has passed. Nothing seems different. But things are different. Insidious things. And the kids are not coming back alone.

Who will write me this book?

Earlier today, I was wondering if perhaps one kid-free hour a day is not enough time in which to finish a novel, shower, work out and blog. In my head, I was penning a bloggy apology for once again having no Thursday inspiration for you.

And then this:

TINK: How is your book going, Mama?
JACQUI: Good, thanks for asking. But I had to cut the skeleton scene we worked on. It just didn't fit, you know?
TINK: Too bad.
JACQUI: But thanks for helping anyway; it got me thinking about other ideas.
TINK: I need your help with MY book, Mama. My series, actually.
JACQUI: You're writing a series?
TINK: Yeah, it's a series of silly books. There are going to be five of them. (sounding exactly like me when I am wrestling aloud with a plot problem) I already know what's going to happen in all of them, but I need some help with good titles. Can you think of some?
JACQUI: Well, what happens in them?
TINK: In the first one, the big idea has to do with the funky bunny village. Wait! I know. The first one is called The Funky Bunny Village. And the second one is going to be Charlie McKey is Not a Funky Bunny.*

Charlie McKey is Not a Funky Bunny. I LOVE it. Is it plagiarism if you steal from family?! Who will write me this book?

* FYI, rest of the series includes: Everyone Does Not Like to Play With Charlie McKey, Wait Up Charlie McKey, and The Funky Bunny Village Rises Again.

For today's Thursday News of the Absurd Will Someone Please Write This Book Inspirational Moment (TNoftheAWSPWTBIM) I present the oddest news we've had so far.

From the Telegraph, article by Danielle Demetriou:

Sky rains tadpoles over Japan

"Residents, officials and scientists have been baffled by the apparent downpour of tadpoles in central Japan's Ishikawa Prefecture.

Clouds of dead tadpoles appear to have fallen from the sky in a series of episodes in a number of cities in the region since the start of the month."

Scientists are baffled. Apparently, amphibians are known* to rain down from the sky sometimes when strong winds suck them up and carry them inland. But there were no strong winds in the region that day.

Obviously the citizens of Ishikawa and their Pharoah have made God very, very mad.

OR, there's an alternative explanation. A children's book explanation. A rollicking picture book explanation that involves, um, hmm. Er. Tadpoles trying to escape the pond? Help! Who will write me this book?

And now, to make up for the fact that I have no actual story with which to charge you, I bring you my favorite tadpole song:

* By whom was this known?! Not me.

For the second week in a row, today's Thursday News of the Absurd Will Someone Please Write This Book Inspirational Moment (TNoftheAWSPWTBIM) has vomit in it.

The Leslie Science Center came to Tink's school this week, along with their collection of rescued birds of prey.

"We saw a red-tailed hawk!" Tink raved. "And a great horned owl."

It sounded very cool. I asked questions. Tink rattled on.

TINK: ...but I felt bad for the poor turkey vulture.
JACQUI: The poor turkey vulture?
TINK: Yeah. He was just rescued, so he hadn't been on any adventures to schools before.
JACQUI: So he was nervous.
TINK: Yeah. He got so nervous he threw up on the gym floor!

Oh, the poor turkey vulture. Imagine it. Franklin is a turkey vulture. He is supposed to be a scavenger, a bird of prey, a fearsome beast. Instead, he is elementary school student-a-phobic. The red-tailed hawk spreads his wings and the kids ooh and aah. The great horned owl spins his head to look behind him and hoots. And Franklin? Franklin barfs and tries to hide.

Clearly, somebody has to write this book. NOBODY has written a fiction picture book with a turkey vulture main character. Sure, there's April Pulley Sayre's lovely Vulture View, but the turkey vulture kids fiction market is wide open!

Who will step to the plate???

photo of turkey vulture by Mjobling at Wikipedia Commons.