Dear Sally, So here I was on an idyllic Aegean island, sipping iced coffee on the hotel balcony overlooking the pool and writing my next best seller, 50 Shades of Greece. Dreaming of dark, unexplored places. The book is about a timid virgin writer exploring his latent sexuality in the land of ancient ruins and rampant hotness where a beautiful maiden with long blonde hair lures him to seedy bouzouki clubs and places called dog houses where singers wear green lurex and fat old men throw bottles of brandy at her. And then they light it. KABOOM! Or something like that. (I couldn’t see much because of the flames) Later she takes him back to her underground lair where she stabs him repeatedly with souvlaki skewers while he howls in passionate abandon. And begging for mercy while wrestling with cable ties.
It was all going swimmingly until I passed out, while I was off my face, in a loo at a nightclub and woke up three hours later with a tattoo of a scorpion on my face. I mean, WTF, right? I’m sure the blonde did it. She’s nowhere to be found. I’ve called her like 100 times and the only answer was from her brother Dimitri Boofopoulos who said if I called again he would feed my balls to kalamari. So here’s the thing, Sally. The tatt is so over all of my face – the scorpion pincers end somewhere up my nostrils. Never mind that I have a body of a Greek god, give or take 25kg, there’s not much chance I can hit on girls which means I can’t research my book. My New York publisher keeps emailing me asking where the first draft is. He’s stopped sending me money. I’m now washing dishes, to earn some food money, hidden away in the kitchen at the local taverna where no-one can see my tatt. I had to move out of my swanky hotel and I’m sleeping on the beach, using my iPad as a pillow. What can I do?
Yours desperately, Sven.
I’m so sorry to hear you’re washing dishes. Oh my, you are in a pickle. As you now look like the Scorpion King, I thought you’d be swarming with women. But there you go. Life is a mystery. I also suspect you might not be telling the truth about having the physique of a Greek god because if you did, you could put a paper bag over your head and girls will think it’s kinky and cute. You could try wearing a grey suit and tie and saying things like: “I don’t subscribe to luck or chance, Miss Steele. The harder I work the more luck I seem to have. It really is all about having the right people on your team and directing their energies accordingly.” But no-one would believe you for a nanosecond. Are you the same Sven who tried to woo a classy chick in a Madrid bar and lucked out because you’re a loser? Obviously nothing’s changed. You’ll need a new title for your book. How about 50 Shades of Stupid? It has a certain ring to it. And forget the cable ties. It’s been done and my pet cockatoos are laughing so hard they’re falling off their perch.
Graciously yours, Sally.
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