NEWS! Plus weekly tour wrap up

Hey everybody,


First up, I want to share some pretty awesome news. The guys over at have invited me to become a contributing editor at the site. That means my blog post will now be somewhat evenly divided between here and there. All the Prose Bros are cool guys and if you’re not familiar with the site, go give it a follow.

Now, on to Beasts of Burdin blog tour news. Here’s a recap of everywhere I’ve been this week.


I got to share my favorite PIs with Kayla over at Bibliophilia.

I shared my favorite authors with Laurie’s Paranormal Thoughts and Things.

Lola’s Reviews got a list of my favorite foods.

A list of favorite demon books, tv, and movies went to Musings of a Fantasy Writer’s Life.

And finally, over at the Stabby Pen, Jonathan Lister gave me the most professional interview ever. If you only click one link, click this one. I’m honored.


And lastly, I wrote an article for Prose about why writing is a complete waste of time, and that’s not a bad thing.


That’s it. Stay tuned for more next week. Monday I’ve got the most intriguing interview of the tour coming up…

Cover Reveal BULLET By Jon Lister





bullet Hey guys, just wanted to share some cover love for my man Jonathan Lister. This book is the sequel to last years smash werewolf hit, Crossroads. If you haven’t read it, you should go do that, like soon. It’s good. Has a nice taste of smart-assery to it that I can appreciate. In the meantime, LOOK AT THE PRETTY PICTURE!






Release Date: June 16, 2014
Target Reader: Adult
Keywords: Urban FantasyWerewolf
Back of the Book
A father’s love doesn’t bend, so what happens when it breaks?
Corruption, dark truths, and a new Alpha mean Leon Gray’s days of running without a pack are over. At least, that’s what everyone but him believes.
He’d rather be helping his teenage daughter navigate the landmine life of a full werewolf, finish out his servitude as bodyguard to a former Demos City reporter and, in all honesty, not be taken advantage of by a beautiful woman who really only wants him for his body—figuratively and metaphorically.
Of course, the only way any of that might happen is if he’s dead. That’s likely given the information the reporter has unearthed and the territorial battles already underway between packs. If only Demos City’s corruption didn’t have such deep roots—older than the bones of the city or any of the werewolves who’ve decided to claim it. A city can only take so many power hungry mongrels invading it at one time, and Leon can only take so much knowing his daughter lives within its boundaries.
War has come to Demos City.
It’s up to Leon to fix … what’s most important to him.

Reading, writing, and stealing

I started writing, like, actually writing with the intent of finishing a novel, a little over two years ago. Yeah, I’m kind of a noob, but that’s okay ‘cause it works in my favor sometimes. You see, before I started writing, I didn’t read a whole lot. A topic I’ve already covered. Short story: The shit I had to read in school bored me and I didn’t know people wrote novels I wanted to read until much later.

Things changed when I started writing, though. I like to think of myself as having a bare minimum not-quite-stupid level of intelligence and the sponge residing in my cranial cavity told me something. Before you ask, it’s not an actual sponge. No, it’s more like a coral reef kind of thing. Either way, it’s alive and it talks to me.

So, the sponge said, “Hey, dumbass, if you’re going to write books, don’t you think you should read them too?”

To which I replied, “Why?”

“So you don’t sound on paper like the dumbass you are in real life, dumbass.”

The sponge is very fond of calling me dumbass. It’s like a cute pet name, only slightly less cute and less puke inducing. You know what I mean, Snookums?

The sponge had a valid point. How could I expect to string together words in a coherent way if I never actually read words strung together coherently? To satiate the sponge’s constant nagging as to my semi-illiteracy I started reading while I was also writing.

And now I come to my point. If I had read as much as I have now, I would never have finished my first book or any thereafter. Crippling paranoia of copying someone else’s work would have killed me deader than dead right on the spot. I find when reading it’s natural to compare to things you know, for reference sake, I guess. It’s set in space like Serenity or it’s about people trapped on an island like Gilligan, or it about bloodthirsty investment bankers that do blow off the wombs of maiden hyenas to retain their poster-boy good looks like Wolf on Wall Street. Disclaimer: I’ve never actually seen that last one, I’m just filling in blanks from what I saw in the trailer.

Comparing as a viewer is totally fine. It helps you define what you like. For example, Book F sounds a lot like book R. I really liked Book R so therefore I would also, probably, enjoy Book F. As a creator, comparing wreaks havoc on the fucking process. I start to write a scene and then I get all, “Man, that’s just like that one scene in Book F. Fuck my life.” *Slams delete key with all the anger of a thousand political talk show hosts*

The reason I bring this up is: I started reading a book, Devil You Know, it’s a good book that so far is very enjoyable. It’s about a witty, down-on-his-luck exorcist who has been retired for over a year and takes a job to help out a friend. My debut novel, Beasts of Burdin (Out February 10th, preorder today!) is about a witty, down-on-his-luck demon hunter who has been retired over a year and takes a job to help out his brother.
Sound similar? Yup.

Did I steal anything from Devil You Know? Nope. I hadn’t even heard of it when I started writing Burdin. But, I had heard of it then, instead of now, I can promise Burdin would have been a completely different book.

Now, I have a little more confidence in my creative abilities. I know that there are always going to be similar stories to what anyone writes; there are no new ideas, only new ways of telling them, and all that jazz. I also trust my integrity to never steal a person’s work or ideas. Sure, some things influence me. I see a powerful story and think, “Man, I want to write like that,” and possibly try to incorporate some elements of what I like into my style.

So in a short way, being ignorant of other books has helped my writing. Would I suggest an aspiring writer stop reading? Fuck no. Go read a book. Preferably mine. Not for literary content though. I’m still pretty bad at writing, obviously.


Writing & Raising Kids? Same Thing, Pretty Much

The other day I was thinking about all the ways parenting can go wrong. I’m not sure why that day in particular, just call it Parental Paranoia: PP for short. So I get hit with the PP, bad, and I start thinking about how hard it is to figure out what’s right to do with your kid’s upbringing, and shit. At this point the mush on one side of my brain overflowed into the mush on the other side and a theory struck me: There are many similarities between writing and raising a non-asshole child.

Think about it, when the idea first strikes you (I’m gonna make a new human/I’ve got a great idea for a story) you’re all about it. You can’t think of a single fucking thing that could go wrong because your idea is so perfect. So, obviously, you commit to the idea.

In the very beginning there is a lot of research and plotting. For example, you have to find out how to convince the stork to stop at your house on its next flyby. That can be a tough one, those ol’ birds are fickle bitches. Then you have all kinds of required reading: What to Expect While You’re Expecting, and, and…other stuff. Internet articles? Youtube videos? Actually, no, that is a terrible idea. STAY AWAY FROM YOUTUBE!

The writer has research to do too. Namely, how to make your novel not suck. That’s the hard one, I think. After that there’s Elements of Style and What to Expect When You’re Expecting a Best-Selling Novel. Okay, that last one’s probably not a real thing. Maybe it should be.

Now that you’ve got your research done and your story/hellspawn brewing you’re riding high. You’ve got this. How hard could it be? Millions of other people have done this very same thing and millions of other people aren’t like you, they’re morons. If a moron can write a book/make a human, you can too. And you’re well-read on the subject. You can tell me about Chekhov’s gun/proper placenta cooking methods.

Then comes the big day, the day the hellspawn bearing fowl drops off its package/the day you get, oh say, five thousand words in to your first draft. This is the first instance of PP for most people, and it usually requires a change of clothing on both fronts. All of the sudden, every. Single. Bit. Of research. Goes right out the fucking window. You officially know not one damn thing about infant raising/wordsmithing.

After days/months/years of PP (it depends on the length of the work/the difficulty of the hellspawn in question) you find a groove. You’ve read all the reading and taken tips from all those other “professional” parents/authors. All of the information has wormed its way in to your brain. At some point you will have the epiphany that every single word they said is BULLSHIT. It is true that some people raise really good children and some people write really good books, but what worked for them will almost certainly not work for you. The world just isn’t made like that. Especially the ‘no yell’ parenting people. Show me someone who says they haven’t flipped their lid on their kids because they were having a shit day and could only take hearing the same question repeated so many times and I’ll show you a liar, probably.

Back on task. You’ve been in your groove for a while and things are good. You’re children/characters are behaving mostly as they should and things seem to fall in to place. This is when things get dicey. Reviewers. You have put all of your palmflesh and vocal cords in to molding the perfect angel/work of art. Now you are forced to send it out to the world and see what other people think. Children get this in the form of teachers and authors get reviewers. There is nothing better than the feeling of being told your angel/art is really fun to be around, but it’s a very scary process either way.

The last part of the process is being finished. Finished? Yeah, it’s some more bullshit. You are never finished parenting/writing. You will always wish you could go back and change something you did in the beginning, but will have to settle with nudging what you have in the right direction and hoping for the best.

In closing, here is a thought on the matter from expert character-wrangler Danielle Shipley:

The similarities grow more starkly apparent when the characters are having toddler-like meltdowns. Character: Why do I have to suffer this plot?!

Author: Because I said so!


And then of course the author goes into the whole “I brought you into this world, I can take you right out again!” thing…


Well said, Ship, well said.

Interview with author Scott Zachary

Hey guys, today I get to drop in and share a cool interview I did with Scott Zachary about his new historical fiction, The Least of These. I know what you’re thinking, historical fiction? Really? Yeah, really. I’ve read it and there are no explosions, but it’s still a good read. I’ll add a quick review at the end of this post.

Q: All right Scott, tell us a little bit about yourself. Who is the real Scott Zachary?
A: Funny you should ask. I am not really Scott Zachary. My name is Ryan; I inherited the pseudonym from the previous Scott Zachary. The man I inherited the name from is not really Scott Zachary either. His name was Cummerbund. The real Scott Zachary has been retired 15 years and living like a king in Patagonia.
Before inheriting the pen name, I had been building Internet-thing for fun and profit for about fifteen years; currently I am just another cog in a great software-producing machine based out of Redmond, WA. You know the one. I have also dabbled in professional graphic design, acting, soldiering, the lay ministry, and a bunch of other odd gigs. I am interested in everything, and get distracted easily.

Q: What made you decide to pursue your writing?

A: I was an avid writer when I was younger, but frankly I was really, really bad. One day I realized that I was trying to write about things I had no business writing about: I had zero life experience. I was always a bit of a shut-in, reading while the other kids were out playing, and I decided to shelve my crummy stories and get out a bit. So I joined the Army. I was seventeen.
After that, and a bunch of other interesting adventures, I carved out a career, had a family, and I sort of forgot about my writing. Then a couple of years ago I read “Bird by Bird” by Anne Lamott and remembered the passion I used to have for writing. So in September of 2012, I fired up and started posting shiny new stories. It has been a slow process, but I am chugging along and loving every minute of it.

Q: The Least of These and your short story collection Gossamer Wings are both self-published. Did you have a hard time choosing to go that route as opposed to traditional publishing?

A: Gossamer Wings was just an experiment to test the waters. I had compiled an eBook of some of the first shorts I wrote in 2012 for friends and family who wanted to read my stories, and then I thought, “Well, since I have already done the formatting, I might as well throw it up on the Kindle Store and play around with marketing and stuff.” It has been a great learning experience, and I have had to do a lot of course-correction, but people seem to like the stories. It was never about money, which is one reason I decided to donate all the royalties from that anthology to charity. I just enjoy hearing from people who like my stories; if I can help out a world-class literacy program in the process, bonus!
My decision to self-publish The Least of These was a lot harder. It is a serious story, and it is something I am really proud of. That’s hard for me to say—that I’m proud—because I’m Canadian, but I think it is the best thing I have written so far. I had two separate offers for publication, but I wasn’t comfortable with the terms of the contracts. I politely declined both of them and decided to release it myself.

Q: So what is this story about?

A: The Least of These is a 10,000-word novelette set in Ireland, during a period of extreme unrest and oppression in the early 18th century, and follows the story of an aging Catholic woman named Molly Gregor and her life-changing encounter with a band of Irish Travelers (often mistakenly referred to as “gypsies”). She is already an outcast in her town, for various sociopolitical reasons, and quickly finds herself in direct opposition with the xenophobic prejudices of her neighbors, which is a risky place to be. Fundamentally, this is a story about questioned faith, restored hope, and the true price of charity. I have been going through a long-drawn crisis of faith over the last several years myself, and I think a lot of that comes out in the story.

Q: I know there are two opposing viewpoints in the story. Do you find it hard to write believable characters opposite of the fence?

A: I was worried about writing Molly, since the story focuses entirely on her and really gets inside her head. I am not a woman, nor late-middle-aged, nor Catholic, so there was a lot of trepidation at first to get her voice right and make her believable. I am somewhat of a “method writer” though, and have a background in acting, so once I got into the character it came surprisingly naturally. Writing the antagonist, on the other hand, was tricky, because it was so easy just to make him a cardboard caricature. If I ever write a novelization of the story, I think I will want to spend some time telling his story and giving a little more context for why he is the way he is. For a novelette though, there’s really only enough space to get into one character’s head without randomizing things too much.

Q: If a gaggle of Cthulus (Yes, there are more than one. Don’t question me, I’ve met at least three, maybe four) ascended from the depths of the Earth and named you the most interesting human being on the planet and as holder of this title they required you to name one movie, two books, and three albums that signify humanity’s awesomeness, what are your choices?

A: Assuming the Elder Gods are staring at me, and I might be a wee bit nervous, and probably soiled myself, I’m just going to rattle off the first titles that come to mind.

Movie: The Princess Bride

Books: Good Omens and A Movable Feast

Albums: Hoodoo Man BluesRattle and Hum, Blue Train

Q: Okay, last one. In 12 syllables or less, tell the world why they should buy your book.

A: It is a promise of hope, in a hopeless world.

There you have it. Now you and Scott-Ryan are best friends, pretty much. As his new bff you should do him the honor of checking out his new book. You can purchase by clicking on his well-crafted cover art here:


Or you can click here to add it to your Goodreads list.


If you’re still hanging around, here are my two cents about the story:

I’m usually the kind of guy who reads books with explosions and gun fights, but Scott has given me a reason to care about a little group of Irish travelers. Scott tells his story with crisp prose that isn’t overly wordy. He gets in, tells his story, and doesn’t drabble on with irrelevant details. This is a solid little story that I would happily recommend to any of my friends or family, even if historical fiction isn’t usually their thing.

Now stop reading about it and go actually read it. That’s an order. Or a very impolitely worded suggestion. Either really.

Sneak Peek: Beasts of Burdin + Updates

All right everybody. Today is a big day. Shit just got real. Today the advance copies of Beasts of Burdin went out to reviewers. Deep breath. I got this. Even if I don’t I guess it’s kind of out of my hands now anyway. So, while I sit here and freak out about what the reviewers think, I am going to share a sneak peek of the first chapter with everybody. Here it is in all of its sarcastic, alcoholic glory, the opening to Beasts of Burdin. Please leave comments and tell me what you think. The whole thing will be available to everyone on February 10, 2014.

Chapter 1

“Ty Burdin! Answer the phone already. It’s your brother.” The voice comes from the next room in a tone usually used by stress-fried mothers, not twenty-something-year-old receptionists. The harsh words crack through my whiskey-soaked brain like someone snapped a bullwhip in my ear. I pick my head up off the desk and wipe the drool from my mouth, as she bursts in the door.

“He’s adopted, and good morning,” I say, opening the drawer to my desk and digging through it.

“It’s not morning. It’s past noon, you lazy drunk.” Her tone is accusing, but there’s a slight smile to her ruby red lips. I really do think Nora gets enjoyment from trying to keep me in line. Her rockabilly style, all tattoos and polkadots, might scare some people off, but honestly, I think it’s kind of cool.

“Fine, I was wrong about the time, but you’re wrong, too,” I say.

“Oh, yeah? How’s that?” Nora kicks her hip to the side and props a hand on her leopard print skirt.

“I’m not drunk. I’m hungover.” I pull out a flask full of scotch and take a long drink. “I’m working on getting back on track, though.” I tip the flask toward her.

“I swear someone’s gonna find you in a ditch one day.” Her voice has a trace of concern, but it’s mostly drowned out by annoyance.

“In my line of work, that’s almost a guarantee. Now, can you tell me why you disturbed my ugly sleep?” Ugly sleep is a gross understatement. No amount of alcohol ever seems to drown out the vision of the young, innocent girl burned into my memory. The scene is even more ominous in my dreams than it was in real life.

A thunderclap breaks the silence of my memories. Nora stares down at me, hands stuck together. “Wake up, drunkard. Hartnet’s been trying to reach you on the phone for the past fifteen minutes.”

The pocket of my jacket buzzes, probably been ringing the entire time. Nora walks over to where it hangs by the door and withdraws the phone. “Jesus, Ty. You’ve got four missed calls, ten new messages, and over twenty emails. Do you ever check this thing?”

“No.” I have the phone, but honestly, I hate it.

Nora sets the still ringing phone on my desk, puts her hands on her hips and, using only facial expressions, guilts me into picking up.

“Hello,” I say into the phone that smells of smoke. I use my free hand to dig out cigarettes and a lighter.

“Ty! Finally, man, where you been?” Hartnet asks.

“Oh, you know me. I just got back from hiking the Swiss Alps with Edmund Hillary.”

“Real funny, Ty, but I imagine you’ve been spending more time with Jim or Jack.”

“God, no, I hate southern whiskey,” I say. “I prefer a fine scotch, Macallan to be specific.”

“You prefer whatever’s in front of you as long as there’s a proof label on the bottle,” Hartnet says.

I don’t have any argument for that. “So, what do you want?”

Going back and reading that just now, I wish I could share more with you guys. Listen, Ty is more than just an alcoholic. He hunts demons in his spare time. Yeah, demons.

Flash fiction with Danielle Shipley

So I asked for anyone to write a story and Danielle Shipley was the first up to the plate. We wrote this story back and forth, one paragraph at a time, with no per-planning or outlining of any kind. It’s always fun to work with another author like this and if anyone out there wants to do another one just let me know. It could also be fun if we got a group to write a quick story like this. Four or five authors with two, maybe three paragraphs each. Be a bestseller before the sun went down over Spokane. That’s a saying, right? Anyway, enough blabbering, here’s the story:


(DS) The last time it snowed on this house, the drifts piled in the yard so high that the only colors to be seen were the tips of the garden gnomes’ hats. All else were shades of white and gray. The bottom steps of the porch lay buried in heavy fluff, the top steps glazed in ice. The spears of frozen water jutting down from the overhanging roof were to blame for that glittering death trap. They dripped like a slavering monster’s row of fangs. The mailman wasn’t about to brave all of that. Through rain and sleet and snow and hail, sure, but his code of honor didn’t say anything about walking into the jaws of an ice beast and slipping to his frozen doom. Why couldn’t this place have its mailbox standing at the foot of the drive, like every other house on the street?


(AN) “Holy icicle deathtrap, Batman,” he muttered under his breath. He crept up the slick steps without incident. On the porch the path became less treacherous and the mailman relaxed. He opened the flap covering the mail-slot in the door and sucked in a quick breath at what he saw on the other side.


(DS) “Thank goodness you’ve come,” the elderly woman gasped from the floor. “I was on my way out to clear the steps for you, but the darn cat got underfoot, and… well, you can see where that’s landed me.” Her eyes pleaded with him through the mail-slot. “By the way… you don’t happen to have a little something in an ominous black envelope for me, do you?”


(AN) Mailman reached in his satchel, pulled out a large black package with no markings. No address. No postage. Nothing. He silently wondered how it even got in his bag, but decided not to question. He held the package up for the old woman. She nodded that it was, in fact, her package. He held the package, obviously too big to fit, up to the mail-slot and pushed. Somehow, the package fit and the slot in the door swallowed his arm up to the shoulder.


(DS) “Lovely, lovely,” the old woman murmured, drawing the package from its deliverer’s grasp. “And it’s arrived none too soon. Erm…” She glanced at him through the mail slot, her thin, wrinkled lips pursed and a guarded look in her eye. “Pardon a senior citizen her idiosyncrasies, dear, but I would prefer to open this in private. Might I have a moment? If you’d like to make yourself useful while you wait, you could go round to the driveway and clear my vehicle of snow. Quickly, please,” she said sharply, indicating it was less a request, more a command.


(AN) Mailman stared at the old woman for along moment, stunned by her directness. He turned around and carefully stepped down from the porch. A solid sheet of snow and ice that used to be the driveway greeted him at the bottom. No car occupied the driveway, but the handle of a broom stuck up from the snow in the middle. Mailman treaded over to the rickety old broom and pulled it from the snow. With a shrug he started sweeping away to top layer of snow. The old woman stomped out from the house with a surprising amount of spunk for a woman of her age. She ripped the broom from his grasp, muttered something that sounded like “fool”, and threw a leg over the broom. Without another word she took off in to the sky.


(DS) Mailman blinked after the woman on the broomstick open-mouthed, a fresh fall of fluffy snowflakes landing on his tongue with an ease they never did whenever he actually tried to catch them. He turned to look back at the house, a puzzled frown between his brows. What happened to the lady’s broken hip routine? Maybe there was far more to that black package than he knew. But that was a mystery for another time. Mailman readjusted his grip on the bag slung over his shoulder and continued to make his way down slushy sidewalk. These bills, circulars, and postcards from sunny Florida won’t deliver themselves.


The End! (…or WAS IT?!)


Reviews are a’comin

In exactly one week, advance reader copies of my debut novel, Beasts of Burdin, are going to be sent out to book reviewers. That means people who read books for a living, or at least a very passionate hobby, are going to be flipping through the pages of something I created. Me. A high school dropout who manages a pizza place. Damn. So yeah, I’m scared shitless. This seems like a good time to talk about my personal ratings system and what I’m expecting from the whole reviewing process.


I rate my books on a five star scale and everything I’ve read I’ve rated on Goodreads if you’re curious as to my tastes in books. (You shouldn’t be. I have awful taste. Just kidding. I read awesome books, usually) If I start a book and its just something I can’t get in to by no fault of its own I don’t rate it. If I step out of my comfort zone and don’t like it, it’s not the books fault, it’s mine.

*1 Star – I wouldn’t recommend this for anyone. Not only can I not think of anything nice to say, I can only think of terrible things so I’m just going to keep mouth mouth shut and let this one, lonely star speak for itself.

**2 Stars – It could have been better, but I’m not pissed for having stuck with it. It wasn’t great, but it had enjoyable aspects.

***3 Stars – This book was completely average and I don’t mean that in a bad way. There is nothing wrong with average. It just means I enjoyed it as much as I would a normal book. A Knight’s Tale is an average movie and I will sit down and watch it every time it’s on TV.

****4 Stars – Now were cooking with something slightly more combustible. Four stars means I really enjoyed it and would definitely recommend it to a friend in need. Four star books have something that really makes them stick out from the crowd.

*****5 – Holy shit I can’t believe I just read that. Best. Book. Ever. That’s my five star. My favorite books of all time fall into five star territory. It’s where the best of the best reside.


That’s not how everyone feels, but it’s a system that works for me. Now, what does all this mean for Burdin? Am I going to be hurt if someone rates Burdin one star? Fucking of course. I worked hard on this book and it means a lot to me. Am I going to be mad at a reviewer for giving it one star? Fucking of course not. People have opinions and Burdin isn’t for everyone. Neither is anything. Ever. There is no one media that all human beings agree on. I even know one guy who doesn’t like the Red Hot Chili Peppers. One guy is all that stands between RHCP and universal love.*


Am I going to jump up and down if someone rates it five stars? Damn straight I will. I worked hard on this book and it means a lot to me. If someone else appreciates my story that much I will be honored. I will also be honored by every single reviewer who writes one word, good or bad, about my book. They took the time from their life to swim around one of the many stories in my head and that means a lot to me. Reviewers: I thank you, for better or worse.


I don’t expect to change the world with Beasts of Burdin. You’re not going to change your religion or have some life changing epiphany about how the world works. If I did my job right you will close the book and say to yourself, “Huh, that was fun” and that’s all I’m aiming for. If that means one, three, or five stars, so be it.  I’m just happy someone read it.


*Not actually proven, just a theory I’ve been working on.


Anyone wanna write with me?

To all my writer-type buddies out there. I saw a funny story a while back about a college ‘tandem writing’ project where two people alternated writing a story one paragraph at a time. The story was written by a guy and girl and they end up destroying each others attempts at actually telling a story. It’s hilarious and I’ll try to post it at some point if I can find it.

Anyway, my point is, would anyone out there want to do this kind of thing for fun? I figure it might be fun to get a couple writers together to create a ridiculous story or two and I will post them to the blog. If you want to do this with a friend or with me it doesn’t matter. It’s just an interesting way to do some less-than-serious writing. Hell, if we got serious about it, we could even have readers vote as to who had the more enjoyable half of the story.

Anyway, if you want to try this, drop me an email or leave a comment or tweet me or write a letter or whatever.


***Update: Here is the original post that gave me the idea:

I’m thinking the farther apart in genres the two writers are, the more hilarious it could be.