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    Tell Your Sheep to Go the Bleep to Sleep
    Tell Your Sheep to Go the Bleep to Sleep
    Tell Your Sheep to Go the Bleep to Sleep
    Ebook85 pages1 hour

    Tell Your Sheep to Go the Bleep to Sleep

    By Richard Crasta

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    About this ebook

    An Indian and his cow, after having had a hot romance over a mu-mu platter, have a separation, . The little girl told to "go the expletive to sleep" comes up with ten unanswerable ways to say "No!" Hemingway is drunk and aroused as he rewrites The Great Gatsby, cows are interplanetary aliens in disguise, and George W. Bush and his National Spin Council plot to tell the American people, "I stand by all the misstatements I have made. So don't cry for me, Argentina!"

    Further, three visually disadvantaged mice make inappropriate advances, much else happens in: this anthology of humor and satire that will change your life and enable you to have incredible sex!

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherInvisible Man Press
    Release dateJan 23, 2013
    ISBN9781516394029
    Tell Your Sheep to Go the Bleep to Sleep
    Author

    Richard Crasta

    Richard Crasta is the India-born, long-time New York-resident author of "The Revised Kama Sutra: A Novel" and 12 other books, with at least 12 more conceived or in progress. "The Revised Kama Sutra," a novel about a young man growing up and making sense of the world and of sex, was described by Kurt Vonnegut as "very funny," and has been published in ten countries and in seven languages.Richard's books include fiction, nonfiction, essays, autobiography, humor, and satire with a political edge: anti-censorship, non-pc, pro-laughter, pro-food, pro-beer, and against fanaticism of any kind. His books have been described as "going where no Indian writer has gone before," and attempt to present an unedited, uncensored voice (James Joyce, Vladimir Nabokov, and Philip Roth are among the novelists who have inspired him.).Richard was born and grew up in India, joined the Indian Administrative Service, then moved to America to become a writer, and has traveled widely. Though technically still a New York resident, he spends most of his time in Asia working on his books in progress and part-time as a freelance book editor.

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      Book preview

      Tell Your Sheep to Go the Bleep to Sleep - Richard Crasta

      Tell Your Sheep to Go the Bleep to Sleep

      Richard Crasta

      Copyright © 2016, 2018 Richard Crasta

      This pre-publication e-book/pdf is licensed for one reader only, and sold on condition that it not be passed on to any other individual.

      All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

      The characters and events in this book, when characterized as fiction or satire, are fictional and imaginary, and any reference to real persons, events, or countries is purely coincidental. In other essays and reflections, creative liberties have been used as are a regular feature of this author’s writings. Names may have been changed to protect the identities of real persons.

      Author’s website: http://www.richardcrasta.com

      All rights reserved by the author and by the publisher, Invisible Man Press, New York.

      Table of Contents

      Across the Hallway and Into . . . Splat!

      Feed an Indian Child for 50 Cents a Day

      Tell Your Sheep to Go the Bleep to Sleep!

      The Scott Meredith Literary Agency

      Nothing Succeeds Like Success Books

      Get Organized Now!—In 15 to 217 Easy Steps

      Two Pages on Young Cats: My Exchanges With The Poet of Fucking

      Animal Funny Farm: Third Revolt, First Blood

      Weapons of Grass Destruction

      The Bucket Kickers

      Hail to the Clowns! A Requiem for the Death of Presidential Buffoonery

      Jack the Politically Correct Baby Boomer

      Other Books by Richard Crasta

      Across the Hallway and Into . . . Splat!

      (A SCENE FROM The Great Gatsby the way a sozzled, testosterone-injected Ernest Hemingway might have written it.)

      He walked through a high hallway and I walked after him, first one leg, and then the other. By means of this neat trick, I found myself in the living room, and—splat!—smacked my face on the wall I couldn’t see because the light was dim, and the grass was green, and my head and fat ass were black and blue.

      Oh, Tom said.

      I said nothing. There was not much you could say to an Oh, unless you were a pansy from New Joisy.

      Inside, the light was pink and the French maid’s knickers were white. And don’t ask me how I discovered the color of her knickers, but I confess I did bend unnaturally low while pretending to pick up a bluestocking in the pink light. And though her knickers were white, the grass outside was green against the house and my face was red from too much white wine. Or maybe the rug was wine-colored. Who cares what the fucking color was, it was a good rug.

      Nice rug you have there, Tom, I said.

      Got it on sale at Woolworth's, he said.

      I laughed and drank a beer.

      That was when two young broads in cool white dresses fluttered in and I wondered, could I be happy with wind, women, and white windows?

      The younger girl lay down full length on the sofa, and her chin was stiff, and so were her nipples as far as I could see through the thin white cotton of her white dress.

      And I thought to myself: You stiff girl on the divan, I've seen battalions of the stiff in the dust on the road. But I know you now and you are mine now and forever. And so are your stiff nipples, and so is this stiff-owned sofa, which I saw on sale for $99.99 at Macy’s on Black Friday.

      Daisy, Tom's squaw, laughed and said I'm p-paralyzed with happiness.

      And I laughed too, for in those days we were young and happy and laughed a lot and for absolutely no reason at all. Hoarse from laughing, and then from laughing at our laughing, and thereafter from laughing at our laughing at our laughing, I downed another seventeen beers. Hail Daisy, full of Daisy, nothing but Daisy is with thee, I said.

      Daisy held my hand and looked up into my face.

      It is good to see you, Nick, she said.

      You drunk or what? My name ain’t Nick, it is Nigel Stavropoulis III, I said.

      It’s good to see you, Mr. Stavro Small-Ballis, she said.

      I wanted to say that there were many things about me that were good and many other things about me that were not so good, one of the latter being my rather limited vocabulary. But saying so would have been a waste of breath, and no one wastes their breath in a Hemingway novel. Unless, perhaps, if they had just shot a lion. I just looked out through the white window at the sunlight and the green grass and wondered why it was that the good weather always followed the bad weather and never the other way around.

      I told Daisy that some people in Chicago had sent her their love—a pansy thing to do, if you ask me.

      Do they miss me? she said.

      No, I said. They have new, improved brown cows now.

      How gorgeous! Let's go back, Nick, she said.

      Sure we will, I said. And then we will walk down the river and along the quays and look in all the galleries and in the windows of the shops. And we will shoot weasels and frisk ferrets with our new Zero Tolerance Policy.

      She laughed and drank a beer . . . straight from the barrel. I can’t say for how long she quaffed the beer, but I did notice her belly distinctly inflate.

      You ought to see the baby, she said.

      It is good to see babies, I said.

      She is sleeping, she said.

      I had understood some things about life and one of them was that you never saw sleeping babies if you could help it. The second thing I understood

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