The Baby Sausage Sell

I fathered a boy who is now ten year old. He lives in my house with me, so I call him, “son.” His brothers call him a “brat” and worse because he always get what he wants. His nickname is “Baby Sausage.” (I don’t know why.) Son One and Son Two claim Baby Sausage is my favorite, which is not true. Baby Sausage simply gets his way because he is a most persistent entity to ever roam the planet earth, and he is never without a want. Today his target was a Ninjago Lego called Garmatron.

The day started with a knock to my head. It was “the Sausage.”

“Wake up, Daddy.” Sausage says, starting out cute, which he is.

“What’s up Sausage?” I ask.

“Ninjago Lego, number 70540,” he replies. He has his piggy bank with him, which means he has sucked the house dry of coinage.

“We don’t have money for Legos today. We just bought you new lacrosse uniform. Maybe next week.” I say.

“It cost forty-five dollars, but it’s on sale at Target for $39.99,” the Sausage replies, completely ignoring my statement.

Son One chimes in. “Baby sausage. You’re not getting a Lego today.”

“Yes, I am,” Baby Sausage replies.

Son One sighs. He knows.

“Look!,” Baby Sausage says as he opens his piggy bank. “There is at least $35 bucks in here.”

Knowing he is more accurate  than a CoinStar machine I immediately abandon the money excuse and evoke executive privilege.

“Listen Sausage, you’re not getting a Lego today. I’m your Dad. You’re not getting a Lego today, and that’s it.”

Sausage leaves.

Breakfast time.

“What do you want for breakfast, Sausage.”

“A Ninjago Garmatron Lego,” he replies.

“Cut, it out,” I say. “How about a gluten free donut.” Our current theory being the Sausage is cute due to gluten, we want him to grow up.

“Listen up,” Sausage calmly states. “Every time you ask me a question I’m going to answer, ‘Ninjago Garmatron Lego,’ until you buy me a ‘Ninjago Garmatron Lego. You are going to buy me a Ninjago Garmatron Lego, and you are going to buy me a Ninjago Garmatron Lego today.”

“Okay you want to play this game,” I reply.  “I’ll play this game.”

About 3 PM, one thousand “Ninjago Garmatron Legos” later I give in. I drive Baby Sausage to Target and buy him a Ninjago Garmatron Lego. The Baby Sausage has won again.

Authors, I’m telling this story because I’m considering buying a subscription to Tweepi, so I can bombard Twitter with auto-tweets about my books. This means every fifteen seconds the Twitter universe will be reminded that BILLY GRIST is a 5-Star masterpiece that must be purchased immediately. I know this is a highly offensive tactic, but I’m certain it will work, because I know, per Baby Sausage, that human beings will eventually pay  anything to stop being annoyed, even if they know the relief is temporary, or unlikely.

So, get ready. Here it comes, two hundred tweets a day that contain every imaginable way of saying you must buy BILLY GRIST immediately.

Okay, I’m just kidding. It’s tempting, but I just can’t do it . In fact, I’ve decided to do the opposite, I’m unfollowing any authors who do more than a few promotional tweets a day, for I hate spam  more than I like selling books.

This all being said, I see nothing wrong with spam in blogs….

“Buy BILLY GRIST.”

“Buy BILLY GRIST.”

“Buy BILLY GRIST.”

“Buy BILLY GRIST.”

“Buy BILLY GRIST.”

“Buy BILLY GRIST.”

“Buy BILLY GRIST.”

 W4$