Frankly (or whatever your name is), my personal life is none of your business so you should know that the only reason you’re getting to read it is because I’m in the poor house out on County Road 3724 where there used to be an old gas station that was a much better place for meeting your best girl than the lovers’ lane next to the cemetery. But none of that matters because I learned the hard way that criminals make more money than reporters. That’s why I sold the rights to my life to Thomas-Jacob Publishing for, well, that’s none of your business either.
If the book cover hasn’t clued you in already, I’ll warn you this book isn’t a beach read. It’s the kind of book you read when you think you’re all alone in the basement, have recently lost your girlfriend and/or wife to some clown named Zeke, or you’re drunk in a lumpy recliner watching Jack Lemmon get screwed by top management in “The Apartment.”
Beta readers (whoever the hell they are), said they laughed their asses off reading the manuscript for Special Investigative Reporter. Good for them: they found the perfect weight loss program.
Remember that old joke, “What do you call 500 lawyers at the bottom of the ocean? Answer: a good start.” Same thing applies to the bed-wetting wimps who run a lot of newspapers. You’ll understand why when you get to the end of my story unless you get drunk and forget what you’re doing.