Tuesday, January 27, 2009

Concha Libre’s hope in the spirit of humanity is also dead.

Yo, Death, get your bony skeleto-hands off my favorite writers!

First Vonnegut.



Then Wallace.





Now this?




What about a Wall street exec? Maybe you want to impale Paris Hilton? Or stick a big fat cancer rod up Tupegolvich’s ass. There are so many more deserving of the bony little tap of your index finger. How ‘bout Augusten Burroughs and his douchey little audience that funds him.


Do you think your little essay speculating on Updike’s death is funny now, douchey, douche?

I guess what I’m trying to say is, Updike is forever immortal, and Burroughs can die already.

6 comments:

Tranquility said...

Death is just a real deadline for every writer.

The pic in your previous post was hilarious.

concha said...

thanks. and considering his volume of work, i think updike did a pretty decent job of meeting that deadline.

A! said...

Vonnegut would re-write Burroughs' life and make it interesting to us, tortured and slightly painful to himself. GOOD!

SARAHSPY said...

news: my division is publishing a volume of vonnegut's unpublished works later this year :)

concha said...

adriene, when you say "good" you remind me SO much of your sister. hehe.

sarah, nice news. autograph me a copy when it comes out. and also when your book does.

Dan said...

Really depends on which Burroughs now doesn't it. I assume you're referring to crappy former copywriter Burroughs but there is another, better Burroughs. But he's already dead. The good one's always are.