SeanPresleyWrites
BOOKS & NOVELS
YET TO BE PUBLISHED SNEAK PEEKS
Embedded Files
BOOK SNEAK PEEK COUGH E "TABLE" BOOK #1
CHAPTER 1 - LET’S GET ROLLIN’
F’n cancer, right? It actually happened to us. What the #%*@!&!?? What in the H E double rectal thermometers did we do to deserve this!? Yeah, I went down that question’s rabbit hole and I did find a few borderline things for which I may be smite upon. But, cancer? And, butt cancer to boot? Or should I say, to booty? Why my butt? The cancer gods can kiss my lower-anterior-resection of an ass! I did nothing to inspire Old Man Boomer, the overlord of colon tumors, to inflict me thusly. I’ve been smoted and it ain’t fair! Ha, as though life were a fair endeavor. We all know that cancer is about bad genes and bad luck, not about bad or smiteoreous behavior. Well, maybe in some cases. My aunt, Dea Thwish, did smoke tar and nicotine infused maraschino cherries from a pipe made out of repurposed asbestos and aerosol cans, so, maybe in her case.
We’ll get back to cancer. The first thing you need to know about this book, is that, even though we’re talking cancer here, the hilarious hilarity housed hither is intended to release cancer’s grip on you and touch your funny bone, nay, stroke your funny bone, nay-nay, stroke your funny bone until it’s fully erect. So be careful, because, as you may have heard; if your funny boner lasts for more than four hours, you should immediately seek even more medical attention than you are currently receiving. And yes, ladies do achieve f’n fun funny boneness as well.
Getting back to where we barely started. Cancer, huh? W. T. F.? I know. Oh yes, ladies and germaphobic’s, I know. – Insert here… my sincere and from the heart commiseration, sympathy and all that good, real and appropriately concerned stuff… As gay as it sounds, if you have cancer, I love you. And by gay, I mean Rudy Gay of the N. B. A. He looks like a nice guy who’s full of love. And by, “Cancer, huh? W. T. F.?” I mean, well, you know what I mean.
Moving this buffet line forward towards the meat of this best-medicine sandwich, I wonder what kind of cancerfukt you are. I hope you’re able to fight hard and survive well. Perhaps have fun rhyming about your cancer, like this: To the wall that framed and hung my tumor, a ray of sun was butt a rumor.
As you may or understandably not have surmised, I had colorectal cancer. So, if that last joke eww’d you, I’m sorry. But it’s hard to deal your way through the big CC without dropping a potty humor joke or deuce. Speaking of my butt; besides being small and shapely but past its prime, like that of a Russian gymnast who’s moved on to T. V. commentary; its inner contents are missing thirteen inches of colon and most of its rectum, so… so, I guess I had nowhere to go with that, I was just saying. Hmm, my bad-ass jeans once held bad ass genes. I said that too.
Bad genes, bad luck; after the diagnosis the reasons mattered little to me. I mean like, does it matter how I convinced my superior girlfriend to spend the remainder of her life practicing, dissecting, improving and perfecting the ways of the Kama Sutra, front to back and back to front; or does it matter that I convinced her? No. It only matters that I convinced her; not how. I know, I know, it’s much easier to get rid of a girlfriend than to get rid of cancer, but keep in mind… in high school she was voted most likely to cling, so she’s hard to bounce.
F’n cancer, right? It actually happened to us. What the #%*@!&!?? What in the H E double rectal thermometers did we do to deserve this!? Yeah, I went down that question’s rabbit hole and I did find a few borderline things for which I may be smite upon. But, cancer? And, butt cancer to boot? Or should I say, to booty? Why my butt? The cancer gods can kiss my lower-anterior-resection of an ass! I did nothing to inspire Old Man Boomer, the anti-god of colon tumors, to inflict me thusly. I’ve been smoted and it ain’t fair! Ha, as though life were a fair endeavor. We all know that cancer is about bad genes and bad luck, not about bad or smiteoreous behavior. Well, maybe in some cases. My aunt, Dea Thwish, did smoke tar and nicotine infused maraschino cherries from a pipe made out of repurposed asbestos and aerosol cans, so, maybe in her case.
We’ll get back to cancer. The first thing you need to know about this book, is that, even though we’re talking cancer here, the hilarious hilarity housed hither is intended to release cancer’s grip on you and touch your funny bone, nay, stroke your funny bone, nay-nay, stroke your funny bone until it’s fully erect. So be careful, because, as you may have heard; if your funny boner lasts for more than four hours, you should immediately seek even more medical attention than you are currently receiving. And yes, ladies do achieve f’n fun funny boneness as well.
Getting back to where we barely started. Cancer, huh? W. T. F.? I know. Oh yes, ladies and germaphobic’s, I know. – Insert here… my sincere and from the heart commiseration, sympathy and all that good, real and appropriately concerned stuff… As gay as it sounds, if you have cancer, I love you. And by gay, I mean Rudy Gay of the N. B. A.’s San Antonio Spurs. He looks like a nice guy who’s full of love. And by, “Cancer, huh? W. T. F.?” I mean, well, you know what I mean.
Moving this buffet line forward towards the meat of this best-medicine sandwich, I wonder what kind of cancerfukt you are. I hope you’re able to fight hard and survive well. I’ll give you one hint about what kind of cancer I battled from ’07 through ’09, with this next rhyming sentence: To the wall that framed and hung my tumor, a ray of sun was butt a rumor. If you guessed toenail cancer, you’re a very bad guesser. If you got all deep up into my right answer, lingered, and enjoyed it, gross; and you owe me some flowers or a nice dinner.
As you may or understandably not have surmised, I had colorectal cancer. So, if that last joke eww’d you, I’m sorry. But it’s hard to deal your way through the big CC without dropping a potty humor joke or deuce. Speaking of my butt; besides being small and shapely but past its prime, like that of a Russian gymnast who’s moved on to T. V. commentary; its inner contents are missing thirteen inches of colon and most of its rectum, so… so, I guess I had nowhere to go with that, I was just saying. Hmm, my bad-ass jeans once held bad ass genes. I said that too.
Bad genes, bad luck; after the diagnosis the reasons mattered little to me. I mean like, does it matter how I convinced my superior girlfriend to spend the remainder of her life practicing, dissecting, improving and perfecting the ways of the Kama Sutra, front to back and back to front; or does it matter that I convinced her? No. It only matters that I convinced her; not how. I know, I know, it’s much easier to get rid of a girlfriend than to get rid of cancer, but keep in mind… in high school she was voted most likely to cling, so she’s hard to bounce.
F’n cancer, right? It actually happened to us. What the #%*@!&!?? What in the H E double rectal thermometers did we do to deserve this!? Yeah, I went down that question’s rabbit hole and I did find a few borderline things for which I may be smite upon. But, cancer? And, butt cancer to boot? Or should I say, to booty? Why my butt? The cancer gods can kiss my lower-anterior-resection of an ass! I did nothing to inspire Old Man Boomer, the overlord of colon tumors, to inflict me thusly. I’ve been smoted and it ain’t fair! Ha, as though life were a fair endeavor. We all know that cancer is about bad genes and bad luck, not about bad or smiteoreous behavior. Well, maybe in some cases. My aunt, Dea Thwish, did smoke tar and nicotine infused maraschino cherries from a pipe made out of repurposed asbestos and aerosol cans, so, maybe in her case.
We’ll get back to cancer. The first thing you need to know about this book, is that, even though we’re talking cancer here, the hilarious hilarity housed hither is intended to release cancer’s grip on you and touch your funny bone, nay, stroke your funny bone, nay-nay, stroke your funny bone until it’s fully erect. So be careful, because, as you may have heard; if your funny boner lasts for more than four hours, you should immediately seek even more medical attention than you are currently receiving. And yes, ladies do achieve f’n fun funny boneness as well.
Getting back to where we barely started. Cancer, huh? W. T. F.? I know. Oh yes, ladies and germaphobic’s, I know. – Insert here… my sincere and from the heart commiseration, sympathy and all that good, real and appropriately concerned stuff… As gay as it sounds, if you have cancer, I love you. And by gay, I mean Rudy Gay of the N. B. A. He looks like a nice guy who’s full of love. And by, “Cancer, huh? W. T. F.?” I mean, well, you know what I mean.
Moving this buffet line forward towards the meat of this best-medicine sandwich, I wonder what kind of cancerfukt you are. I hope you’re able to fight hard and survive well. Perhaps have fun rhyming about your cancer, like this: To the wall that framed and hung my tumor, a ray of sun was butt a rumor.
As you may or understandably not have surmised, I had colorectal cancer. So, if that last joke eww’d you, I’m sorry. But it’s hard to deal your way through the big CC without dropping a potty humor joke or deuce. Speaking of my butt; besides being small and shapely but past its prime, like that of a Russian gymnast who’s moved on to T. V. commentary; its inner contents are missing thirteen inches of colon and most of its rectum, so… so, I guess I had nowhere to go with that, I was just saying. Hmm, my bad-ass jeans once held bad ass genes. I said that too.
Bad genes, bad luck; after the diagnosis the reasons mattered little to me. I mean like, does it matter how I convinced my superior girlfriend to spend the remainder of her life practicing, dissecting, improving and perfecting the ways of the Kama Sutra, front to back and back to front; or does it matter that I convinced her? No. It only matters that I convinced her; not how. I know, I know, it’s much easier to get rid of a girlfriend than to get rid of cancer, but keep in mind… in high school she was voted most likely to cling, so she’s hard to bounce.
F’n cancer, right? It actually happened to us. What the #%*@!&!?? What in the H E double rectal thermometers did we do to deserve this!? Yeah, I went down that question’s rabbit hole and I did find a few borderline things for which I may be smite upon. But, cancer? And, butt cancer to boot? Or should I say, to booty? Why my butt? The cancer gods can kiss my lower-anterior-resection of an ass! I did nothing to inspire Old Man Boomer, the anti-god of colon tumors, to inflict me thusly. I’ve been smoted and it ain’t fair! Ha, as though life were a fair endeavor. We all know that cancer is about bad genes and bad luck, not about bad or smiteoreous behavior. Well, maybe in some cases. My aunt, Dea Thwish, did smoke tar and nicotine infused maraschino cherries from a pipe made out of repurposed asbestos and aerosol cans, so, maybe in her case.
We’ll get back to cancer. The first thing you need to know about this book, is that, even though we’re talking cancer here, the hilarious hilarity housed hither is intended to release cancer’s grip on you and touch your funny bone, nay, stroke your funny bone, nay-nay, stroke your funny bone until it’s fully erect. So be careful, because, as you may have heard; if your funny boner lasts for more than four hours, you should immediately seek even more medical attention than you are currently receiving. And yes, ladies do achieve f’n fun funny boneness as well.
Getting back to where we barely started. Cancer, huh? W. T. F.? I know. Oh yes, ladies and germaphobic’s, I know. – Insert here… my sincere and from the heart commiseration, sympathy and all that good, real and appropriately concerned stuff… As gay as it sounds, if you have cancer, I love you. And by gay, I mean Rudy Gay of the N. B. A.’s San Antonio Spurs. He looks like a nice guy who’s full of love. And by, “Cancer, huh? W. T. F.?” I mean, well, you know what I mean.
Moving this buffet line forward towards the meat of this best-medicine sandwich, I wonder what kind of cancerfukt you are. I hope you’re able to fight hard and survive well. I’ll give you one hint about what kind of cancer I battled from ’07 through ’09, with this next rhyming sentence: To the wall that framed and hung my tumor, a ray of sun was butt a rumor. If you guessed toenail cancer, you’re a very bad guesser. If you got all deep up into my right answer, lingered, and enjoyed it, gross; and you owe me some flowers or a nice dinner.
As you may or understandably not have surmised, I had colorectal cancer. So, if that last joke eww’d you, I’m sorry. But it’s hard to deal your way through the big CC without dropping a potty humor joke or deuce. Speaking of my butt; besides being small and shapely but past its prime, like that of a Russian gymnast who’s moved on to T. V. commentary; its inner contents are missing thirteen inches of colon and most of its rectum, so… so, I guess I had nowhere to go with that, I was just saying. Hmm, my bad-ass jeans once held bad ass genes. I said that too.
Bad genes, bad luck; after the diagnosis the reasons mattered little to me. I mean like, does it matter how I convinced my superior girlfriend to spend the remainder of her life practicing, dissecting, improving and perfecting the ways of the Kama Sutra, front to back and back to front; or does it matter that I convinced her? No. It only matters that I convinced her; not how. I know, I know, it’s much easier to get rid of a girlfriend than to get rid of cancer, but keep in mind… in high school she was voted most likely to cling, so she’s hard to bounce.
BOOK SNEAK PEEK COUGH E "TABLE" BOOK #2
PAGE ONE:
Hey! I’m serious! Hey! You should read my book the next time you’re in a stoner’s home at a smoke out party. But only if you wanna have more fun than a… I say; more fun than a Jamaican dung beetle with an ounce of Elephant Kush and a full pack of Zigzags in a toilet of the girl’s bathroom at the Playboy mansion during a Willy Nell’s son theme party. I mean, like, just look at what others are saying about my book:
“This book is brilliant and totally awesome! Near the end I was wishing that I’d written it myself. Oh wait, I did write it. I’m so baked.” – T. H. Craven Greene
“My publishing company can’t wait to sign this author to a big contract with a huge up front signing bonus. But he just won’t agree to change his penname to the more subliminal, multicultural and inspirational, Moovowta Momzhaus.” – Potpourri Potpublishing Inc.
“We’d consider arresting Mr. Greene for writing this gateway book, but by all accounts he rarely leaves his mother’s basement, so that seems like prison enough to us.” – The Cops
“It’s like this, bra’. Every stoner needs to like, pass this E-book around at their next smoke together. You’ll laugh so hard bra’, that like, bong water will shoot out of your nose! Tip; float some nasal decongestant in the water.” – Nonegsiss Tentdude
“After reading this book I was ashamed to be a non-smoker. I’m proud to say I’m up to four joints a day. Thank you T. H. C. G. OMG, you’ve turned my straight life crooked and the hip curves feel so nice.”– Gudgurl Gonnbadd
“My little Tomorrow wrote a book! You should buy it. It’s all about that awful devil weed, but at least the project kept him from playing with his stick of joy games all day long. That Gland Thrift Blotto or whatever the kids call it.” – Mrs. Greene
“This mother fu**er loves to have a good time and be mellow. He makes talkin’ ‘bout weed a straight up gangsta art form and sh*t. He’s whiter than an old school Zigzag, but he knows how to roll.”– Snark Doggg
Hey! I’m serious! Hey! You should read my book the next time you’re in a stoner’s home at a smoke out party. But only if you wanna have more fun than a… I say; more fun than a Jamaican dung beetle with an ounce of Elephant Kush and a full pack of Zigzags in a toilet of the girl’s bathroom at the Playboy mansion during a Willy Nell’s son theme party. I mean, like, just look at what others are saying about my book:
“This book is brilliant and totally awesome! Near the end I was wishing that I’d written it myself. Oh wait, I did write it. I’m so baked.” – T. H. Craven Greene
“My publishing company can’t wait to sign this author to a big contract with a huge up front signing bonus. But he just won’t agree to change his penname to the more subliminal, multicultural and inspirational, Moovowta Momzhaus.” – Potpourri Potpublishing Inc.
“We’d consider arresting Mr. Greene for writing this gateway book, but by all accounts he rarely leaves his mother’s basement, so that seems like prison enough to us.” – The Cops
“It’s like this, bra’. Every stoner needs to like, pass this E-book around at their next smoke together. You’ll laugh so hard bra’, that like, bong water will shoot out of your nose! Tip; float some nasal decongestant in the water.” – Nonegsiss Tentdude
“After reading this book I was ashamed to be a non-smoker. I’m proud to say I’m up to four joints a day. Thank you T. H. C. G. OMG, you’ve turned my straight life crooked and the hip curves feel so nice.”– Gudgurl Gonnbadd
“My little Tomorrow wrote a book! You should buy it. It’s all about that awful devil weed, but at least the project kept him from playing with his stick of joy games all day long. That Gland Thrift Blotto or whatever the kids call it.” – Mrs. Greene
“This mother fu**er loves to have a good time and be mellow. He makes talkin’ ‘bout weed a straight up gangsta art form and sh*t. He’s whiter than an old school Zigzag, but he knows how to roll.”– Snark Doggg
Contact Sean by Email at: sean@seanpresleywrites.com © Copyright 2017 Sean Presley - All Rights Reserved
Page updated
Google Sites
Report abuse