Enter The Chipmunk Factor

TheChipmunkFactor_300I know you have been concerned. On the list of your economic priorities, somewhere between paying the mortgage and the health insurance, lies your need to purchase Wright Forbucks’ next novel. Well, I’m pleased to report your wait to address this obligation is over for your favorite author’s latest and greatest, The Awkward Detective V2: The Chipmunk Factor, is now available at

The Chipmunk Factor is the second book in my Awkward Detective Series. Like all my books, I began writing this novel with a title. In this instance my title arrived after I noticed chipmunks often crossed my path when driving to work making me wonder about the chipmunk population in my home town. As always, after I get a title stuck in my brain, I come up with a matching plot over a period of months while I do other things. No heavy lifting involved.  I then write the book fast, in about 60 days working 2-3 hours a day, in the wee wee hours when no teenagers are around to disturb me. To date, this process has produced variable results, but I have no intention of changing it as I begin to ponder The God Bomb, the next novel in the Awkward Detective Series.

I have been writing novels for a few years now. Being so, I have about ten fans who semi follow me, wondering, on rare occasions,  via an email or a tweet, about my game plan. For their benefit, here it is…

I’ve decided to write two types of novels: mysteries and, as one of my reader’s coined, WTF Literature, absurd satires. Right now, I’m completing the Awkward Detective mysteries. To do this, I’m unpublishing the Awkward Detective V1: The Bone Donor to make it better. I currently plan to re-release this book in a couple months. I then plan to publish The God Bomb in 2016, to wild acclaim, no doubt. After The God Bomb, I do not plan to write another Awkward Detective book, unless the first three become slightly more popular than Star Wars. On the WTF front, I’m writing three novellas that I plan to release on the same day some time in 2017. These works will include a complete re-write of The Agitation of Renny Sneed, The Beatification of Mazolla White and The Bankruptcy of Howie Fitz. So, like Paul McCartney not being dead, I’m not going away.

Regarding The Chipmunk Factor all I will say is this…I’m intentionally trying to attract a wider audience by presenting a linear plot with lots of dialogue.   Maybe it will be a winning combination, but who knows. I had fun writing this book. If you read it and like it tell a friend. If you hate it, do me a favor. Keep your mouth shut 🙂 W4$

Now available at Amazon: The Awkward Detective V2: The Chipmunk Factor

Little Things

Little things are starting to bother me, perhaps because I’m getting old. I’m fairly sure I’m 55, which I’ve learned is the age men start waking up fourteen times a night to trickle.

I heard younger people say as you get older you stop sweating the small stuff, but I see no sign of that happening to me. I’m Irish, so I’m going down fighting –  even if I don’t know who I’m fighting.

Yes, despite my relatively young old age, I’ve already been blessed by the realization that anger for anger’s sake is the purest form of emotion and the best way to confront my inevitable dance with death. Being so, I plan to withhold my maximum wrath for any member of the medical profession who tells me there’s something growing inside my body that is “the size of a cantaloupe…”

Right now, if pushed, I’d say I’m just entering the everybody-is-an-asshole phase of “aggressive aging.” This means I tell telemarketers to “fuck off” before they say “hello” and while shopping I’m often overcome by the need to punch a random millennial in the face. Luckily, I’m not as angry as John McCain – yet. But, as I get older, I’m looking forward to getting all revved up about killing Syrians and other people that live very far away. Currently, I’m trying to hate Brazilians because they comprise the local help, but it’s not working. Worse case, I can delude myself that my Brazilian cleaning lady is stealing my shit, but unfortunately I’m cognizant enough to realize I’m actually losing my shit. Fortunately, with time, I know this will change. Eventually I’m certain I will be able to convince myself Brazilians caused the Holocaust, the Area 51 coverup, and the 1929 stock market crash. Knowing this, while writing this blog I’m simultaneously practicing spittle-cursing the word, “Brazilians!”

Yup, I’m getting seriously old. And to be honest, the anticipation of further aging is killing me. So, much to look forward to…a face that looks like a meatball pizza due to basil cell carcinoma, regurgitating half a Thanksgiving meal on to my holiday sweater, and consistently smelling like a box of kitty litter… I can’t wait…

Jesus, I just realized I’m an author. Damn, imagine what aging is going to do to my already incoherent books…

Oh well, so much to do and so little time… Item one on my bucket list…a trip to the shoe store to buy some steel-tipped boots so I can kick stuff without hurting my feet… 🙂


The General Store

Howdy all. I re-wrote the novella I released last year called THE GENERAL STORE because it stunk. The new novel-length version of this comic fiction masterpiece will be available at your favorite ebook store on 10-9-13. Now, its only fault is excessive humor. Below is the official blurb of version 3.72390 of THE GENERAL STORE…

THE GENERAL STORE is a wicked sex comedy about what happens when small-town folks start minding their neighbors’ funny business.
Set in Apple, Massachusetts, the laughs begins when Mayor Happy Munson betrays yet another “friend.” But this time, it’s an old man with the money and brains to get even. Helping the old man seek revenge is Jebediah Jones, the well-endowed owner of the General Store who has been arrested for, literally, hanging out. Offended parties include Luke Keegle and his mother, Doris. Luke is an Internet whiz kid, a devout Christian, and owner of, the web’s destination spot for purchasing “chastity wear.” Doris Keegle is the chairman of the town’s restoration committee. She wants to return Apple’s countryside to its original state. Her main target is the personal dump of her next door neighbor and Apple’s legendary biker bad boy, Rake Davis, who has been half-burying his old Ford pick-up trucks for decades. Bradford Bender, the town’s best and only lawyer, has been hired to fix the mess, but Sally Munson, the first lady of Apple and a registered martial arts instructor, is opposing him. And, she’s not going down without a fight. Also in the fray are the world’s most famous environmentalists, Crunchy and Macrame Montana, who are fighting to save the eeeking plover, a tiny bird whose near extinction has been carefully chronicled by the town’s historian, a socially awkward man named Bruce Pane who is living with an inflatable lover named Ms. Wheezy…

THE GENERAL STORE is Wright Forbucks’ pathetic attempt to author a mainstream comedy that will generate sufficient income to purchase a bean burrito and a small Mountain Dew.
Other works by Wright Forbucks include THE WALKING MAN, BILLY GRIST and EVEN STEVEN.
Please note: THE GENERAL STORE is Rated R due to crass language (85 F bombs) and sexual content. It contains 59,000 words.

Wright Re-writing Right

Howdy. The rumor that I was killed by angry jihadi, due to my last best-seller, BILLY GRIST, is not true…Nobody told me it was a bad idea to poke fun at Muhammad…Some people just can’t take a joke…

I’m dropping a blog post to let my fan(s) know I have not given up. In fact, I’m currently re-writing THE GENERAL STORE. My goal is to turn this messy and naughty little novella into a comic fiction masterpiece, which, to me, means selling ten copies. Worth noting, to amp its hilarity, I’ve added 20,000 words and a couple new plot twists to THE GENERAL STORE. Thus, to prevent guffaw related injuries, I’m currently advising potential readers to avoid hot drinks while consuming this novel and to also consider the co-purchase body control underwear to address the high probability of laughter-induced incontinence.

My head is Irish thick, so most often I need to be hit by a car before learning how to cross a street. Being so, to date, my enlightenment related to novel writing has been controlled by a stingy dimmer switch. Nonetheless, producing three novels has taught me a few things. I now write while thinking about my reader(s) and I’ve stopped rushing to meet self-imposed deadlines for I now believe a good book can’t be hurried. This means while I re-write the GENERAL STORE if the words don’t feel right, even if I don’t know why, I hit the delete key. It’s my hope this iterative process will finally yield a novel that will gain readership via word of mouth. We’ll see. My fondest hope is your average e-book reader will be sufficiently entertained by THE GENERAL STORE, to tell a friend about this funny and well-written comedy about an old man with a big one, a really big one…

Currently, I plan to re-publish the re-written THE GENERAL STORE some time this year, probably November.

Stay tooned.

Chuckles for Dollars

Per one of my recent pathetic tweets, I have formally declared myself a “humorist” because the more descriptive term, “snide asshole,” is bad for marketing, or so I’ve been told. FYI, being a self-declared humorist, I’m now officially free to poke fun at any given topic, not just ebook publishing. To me, this is the equivalent of coming out of the closet, for the truth is I find just about everything funny and I’m no longer ashamed to admit it.

My new found freedom is good for me for blogging about random crap fits my current schedule, which is dominated by the execution of menial tasks designed to generate the income needed to pay for the mess I’ve created – otherwise known as children.

So, here’s how my new blog works. I write about whatever pops into my head. You laugh hysterically and then buy all my books. I call it chuckles for dollars. My objective is to earn enough money to buy my youngest son a Death Star Lego, for I’m old, thus way past the stage of wanting a trophy wife and a pink Mercedes with kelly green hubcaps…

The thing that I’m finding funny at this moment is dieting. I just decided to go on my first ever diet. Prior to being 54 I was thin before my metabolism changed and a prolonged Oreo bender turned me into yet another son of the Pillsbury Doughboy. Currently, I weigh 215 pounds. I have to get down to 195 or the annual premium on my life insurance will exceed the price of a Faneuil Hall toll house cookie (a local joke)…

Being a real man, I don’t spend any time thinking about the consequences of my pending actions. Thus, the only way I gain wisdom is by assessing carnage. Being so, looking back, I should have realized I needed to lose some weight. The signs were there, which leads me to the ultimate objective of this blog, the presentation of a countdown list, the only known means of generating a viral Internet response that doesn’t involve a video camera and a tube of K-Y Jelly…Yes, it’s the top eleven signs that you need to lose weight…Let the chuckles begin…

11. You apply baby powder to your belly flaps to prevent mushroom growth.
10. You think about Fruity Pebbles more than Kate Upton.
9. Upon viewing a Michelin tire commercial your kids yell, “Hey Mom, Dad’s on TV!”
8. You can’t touch your toes. But you can make your nipples touch each other.
7. You subscribe to Bloomberg TV to monitor the wholesale price of cookie dough.
6. You mark Ben and Jerry’s birthdays on your calendar.
5. You can store a Charleston Chew in your naval.
4. You can’t see your boys without putting a mirror on the floor.
3. Your fingertips are permanently orange due to Cheetos consumption.
2. Your snoring removes ceiling tiles.
1. After losing fifteen pounds you swear to God you’ve heard a peanut butter and jelly sandwich scream, “Eat me bitch!”


My Billy Grist Blurb…

BILLY GRIST is comical parable about the nature of faith. It tells the story of Billy Grist, a man-child who seeks to unite humanity by building a “massive family” only to find his destiny is controlled by a higher power who has other plans for saving mankind…

Part satire, part 9-11 revenge fantasy, BILLY GRIST is narrated by The Great Numero Uno, the leader of the UIUI (Ultra-Intelligent Universe Inspectors) and an avowed misanthropist for having witnessed the evolution of mankind from plankton to our current “sorry” state. The fun begins when the Almighty One reveals His grand plan to The Great Numero Uno, forcing the microscopic egomaniac to relate the story of the world’s ultimate altruist, Billy Grist, to the very people he despises…

Billy is a mulatto born of a deaf father who is obsessed with creating the perfect fruit cocktail, and a gymnast mother who was once capable of “spiking a perfect landing” before growing a noteworthy set of breasts. Billy is also brother to a sister who emits a radiant smile that invokes Beatlemania. Unfortunately, it’s a gift soon quelled by the world’s most wicked disease, Comswalli Nervousa, which causes a wider tragedy that’s eventually capped by an email from the Great Beyond…

Abandoned by God, Billy Grist nonetheless decides to embrace life by using his incredible wealth to build a massive family that includes a broad mix of brothers and sisters. Billy plans to unite the human race, but his noble effort is soon thwarted by a brain-dead terrorist named Calvitor Septor, son of Animus Septor, the inventor of the Jewbie doll, a plush toy with detachable limbs that becomes the must have item within the Middle-Eastern nation of Aridia…

A must-read for Islamic extremists, recently compared to works of Christopher Moore, Vonnegut, and Douglas Adams, BILLY GRIST deploys humor to create a thought-provoking satire that turns sacred cows into hamburger. It’s a recommended read for those willing to embrace the ultimate truth that human beings don’t know jack s@$!! about how or why we were “created.” W4$.

Billy Grist

Billy Grist is FREE at on 5-24-2013

The Camp Out

In keeping with my prior blog, I’m no longer confining my pathetic attempts at humor to e-publishing; the world is now my pincushion, hardy, har, har, and all that goes with it.

Today, I’m under extreme pressure to be funny because I’ve committed to writing something stupid every week and it’s now Sunday morning, and I have to go to a lacrosse game, mow the lawn, and pave my elderly neighbor’s driveway for a dozen toll house cookies. Yes, chivalry is not dead.

Given these tasks, and my general and constant state of unpreparedness, my only current option to is to poke fun at the event that I attended last night, which involved sharing the woods with a combination of adults and children. I regularly refer to this happening as “the yearly horror show.” More sane people call it the “Annual Boy Scout Camp Out.”

In my deluded mind I’m tough; there’s me and Clint Eastwood, and nobody in between. This being said, I’m ashamed to admit there is nothing in this world I fear more than the Annual Boy Scout Camp Out.

I have many children, so my attendance at the “camp out,” which occurs the third weekend in May each year, has been mandatory for nearly a century, at least it seems that long. The camp out marks the end of scouting for the year. Honest men call it “hell on earth.” The mosquitos call it the beginning of “people season.” There are many things I rather do than attend The Annual Boy Scout Camp Out, which to me is the equivalent of receiving a colonoscopy, without sedation, from a gastroenterologist with Parkinson’s disease.

As always, the event began innocent enough. Older scouts, call boy scouts, spent hours teaching younger scouts, called bears, wolves, cubs, and webelos (whatever that is) how to perform tasks that have no real-world application – in preparation for adulthood. Activities included: learning how to tie knot with your toes, how to turn a bundle of sticks into a nuclear weapon, and how to stay safe while doing incredibly stupid things like climbing up a cliff or spelunking, which I learned involved descending into a cave using only a rope and a LED flash light.

My son, the little one they call, “Sausage,” wanted to do everything. He was especially interested in learning how to construct a hang glider using a Sear’s catalog and a single tube of Elmer’s glue, but I pushed him into the spelunking class, knowing we would, never, ever, go exploring some God forsaken cave.

Surprisingly, the time allotted for the older kids to teach younger kids how to do shit passed without incident. In fact, there was not a single impaling, or broken leg, which was extremely rare.

We were off to a good start.

Next up was the Annual Poisoning of the Husbands, otherwise known as the campfire buffet: burgers, hot dogs, and pasta salad coated with DEET, pollen, and Cub Scout bacteria, freshly sneezed. I called this event the “Poisoning of the Husbands” because over the years I’ve noticed all the wives in attendance laugh continually instead of eating, which is unusual considering each of them weighs more than a VW Beetle.

When my paranoia about food-borne illnesses finally subsided, my favorite part of the camp out occurred. The kids, moms, and the “guys” who wore tan shorts and medals, retreated to an open-air amphitheater to perform skits, the purpose of which was to entertain the young and the feeble minded. It was during this time the few lucky men among us, including yours truly, fulfilled our obligation to be “campfire monitors.” This meant it was our job to drink beer and make sure the den’s campfire did not turn into a town fire.

The bullshit session that followed was the stuff of legend: men in the woods without electronics, multiple coolers, bags of every type of chip available within the continental United States.

The guy beside me drank fast, so I soon learned he sold veterinary surgical equipment and that his business was terrible because none of the local hotels would let him do product demonstrations using dog cadavers.

“That sucks,” I said.

“No shit,” he replied.

“Hey man, if you ever need to do dissect a dog and you’re in my neighborhood, you can use my house,” I said.

“You sure?” he asked.

“Sure, I’m sure,” I responded. “Another Bud, please.”

Eventually our children returned, as they always do. It was Smores time. Several flaming marshmallows nearly hit me before the present cluster of boyhood decided to reenact Lord of the Flies by turning their Marshmallow sticks into weapons, as they always do.

“We must attack the second graders,” the Sausage informed me.

“Where are they?” I asked.

Sausage pointed to a nearby hill.

“Way over there.”

“Good,” I said after winking to my new Bud-buddy. “Go get those f’n second graders! Take no prisoners! Remember the Alamo! Tippecanoe and Tyler too!”

About an hour later our soldiers returned. There was some blood, but no reports of fatalities. The evening was going exceptionally well, especially considering past events, which included one of my son’s being neutered by a Karate exhibition gone bad.

Ahh, but the night’s fun was not over for the sun had gone down five hours earlier and the temperature was approaching thirty-five degrees.

Given today’s advanced camping technologies, for well-prepared folks low temperature was a non-issue, but for an ADD Dad, who lacks the skills to plan a birthday party, thirty degrees presented a serious issue, for I only brought two sleeping bags and the Sausage needed both.

“One is my mattress,” the Sausage informed me. “The other is my sleeping bag.”

Despite being a bad traditional Dad, I’ll do anything for my kids. Thus, without argument, I decided to sleep in my collapsible chair, wearing Bermuda shorts, a T-shirt, and my vintage Red Sox jacket.

Needless to say, I froze my ass off.

When I finally woke up for good, the sun had just risen and nature was definitely calling, and it was an urgent matter, the Buds and the Annual Poisoning, no doubt.

I was in generalized pain, which meant every square inch of my body hurt more than Johnny Cash’s head after a night out with Merle Haggard. Being so, I struggled to find the “Men’s Room,” which I knew, would be the most disgusting place on earth.

I was not disappointed for inside the wooden shack marked men and scented by urine from the Eisenhower era, there was a fairly new “Environmentally Friendly” toilet. My vision was cloudy so I was not sure the toilet contained a liquid. I thought I saw some corn floating, but I wasn’t sure. “Maybe it’s my macular degeneration,” I theorized.

Knowing I was about to jettison an ungodly load, I was concerned about splashing, so I conducted a test. I lowered sheets of toilet paper, one by one, into the toilet, testing for water. There was none. I was safe to go.

The explosion that followed would have been embarrassing if witnessed, but for me it was the first step in my return to life.

“This Boy Scout Camp Out was tolerable,” I told myself. “No major incidents…I can’t wait to get home.”

After a customary moment of relaxation, I rose. Then I suddenly felt something. It was my wallet. It had fallen out of my Red Sox jacket and into the toilet.

It was gone.

A normal man would of panicked, but not me. Instead, I was instantly overcome by a calm resolve, for my wallet contained five C-notes, and I knew there was no way on earth this money was not going to be retrieved.

After a few minutes of thinking I returned to my tent.

“Sausage, wake up!” I said. “Good news!”

Knowing me, Sausage replied, “Really?”

“Yes,” I assured him. “Get some rope! We’re going spelunking!”


Billy Grist, Bless Me Father For I Have Sinned, Again…

One of the good things about being indie is you can publish whatever you want, including a book that pokes fun at the Big Guy. If you have a religion, or a nationality, you will likely be offended by BILLY GRIST, but hopefully it will also make you laugh. My intent when I started writing BILLY GRIST was to mix a 9-11 revenge fantasy with a twisted tale of creation, my point being, we’re a fundamentally clueless when it comes to the true nature of our creator. (And, we’d all be better off if we just admitted it…)

The idea for BILLY GRIST came from the loss of a friend in the 9-11 attack. My friend was a young man, a husband with a one-year-old daughter. His tragic death confirmed my long-standing belief that religious fanatics are the scourge of humanity. BILLY GRIST is my pathetic attempt to make this point. This being said, BILLY GRIST, also presents the possibility that God exists, but not in a form that is comprehensible by our ilk, or that of an Ultra Intelligent Universe Inspector…

BILLY GRIST was my first book. I wrote it a couple years ago. When done, I thought it was great. A year later, I thought it was the worst book ever written. Awful. Terrible. But, I hate not finishing things, likely due to the granite lodged in my Irish head, so I re-wrote BILLY GRIST. My beta readers now tell me that BILLY GRIST is no longer awful. But they also warn it’s not “mainstream” material, their exact words being, “only readers with significant mental health issues will enjoy this tale.”

Hmm, since we’re all crazy, I think what they’re really trying to say is BILLY GRIST is destined to be a best-seller 🙂 W4$

BILLY GRIST available 3-10-13 at Smashwords and


Writing with Bees

Fellow Indies writers, and snobbish literati who give away your work to the paper-pushers for a measly ten percent, I’ve stumbled across a tremendous writing aid that I feel obliged to share with you.

If you’re like me, married with children, your biggest problem is finding time to write: kids yelling about their most recent light saber injury, the wife testing your fatherhood/manhood by asking you to pave the driveway with a rolling pin, etc., etc… You know the deal. To solve this problem I usually write from three to five in the morning, a time when children only wakeup to throw up, or scream about the family of Zombies living under their beds.

Well, I’m pleased to report; I recently stumbled upon a cure for this problem.

Bees! Yes. Bees.

I write in my basement, in a big office, in a big house, not paid for with my ebook royalties 🙂 This fall, about forty-five days ago, my office became infested with bees. Being an Irish bullshitter (See my previous post.) this means about ten to twenty bees. I’m sort of easy going about most things, including bees. So, I let the bees swirl about me. Two times bees got into my pants, but I smushed them before they reached my testicles. And, I got bit once, on the arm. No big deal.

It was all worth it, for the cohabitants of my dwelling, a.k.a. my family, are deathly afraid of bees. Accordingly, they did not come within thirty feet of my office. In short, they left me alone. I could write for a whole hour without interruption. It was a dream come true.

Sadly, last night, the temperature went down to forty in Western Massachusetts. So, as I am writing this blog, my bees are stationary at my feet. I considered attempting CPR, but I think my mouth is too big. Alas, it appears my bee gig is up. So, I think I need to move on… time to begin writing with snakes!


Free Ain’t What It Used to Be – Ebooks versus Snack Food

This blurb is a continuation of my prior post about free ebooks…

As far as I can tell, free isn’t getting any better. To complete my Amazon/KDP free “promotion” of my still unreviewed comic fiction masterpiece, THE GENRAL STORE, I ran two final days of free. I did a few tweets to promote the offering, nothing else, and got twenty downloads. This was about 10X-100X lower than the past with the same level of promotion.

I like to think these results did not happen because my amazingly hysterical ebook totally sucks. Instead, it seems to me that many readers now feel free ebooks are worth less than the fraction of a fraction of a penny it takes to store them on their Kindle’s hard drive. I think this is happening because the free ebook market is max’d out.

Ultimately, my just completed ebook freebie-thon reminded of a recent child-rearing experience…

I have three boys. Two are teenagers. They eat a lot. So, the other day I went to BJ’s and bought massive quantities of snack food, a box of that contained three hundred little bags of Cheez-Its, a crate that contained five hundred sleeves of good old-fashioned Oreos (not the shitty blond ones), and a thirty-eight gallon bag filled with smaller bags of chips and cheesy-crunchy things that looked like mini colons. I then went to Home Depot and bought some plastic shelving. After a few hours of sweat, I put the snacks on the supposedly “easy to assemble” shelf and told da boys to “load up!” They’re skinny as hell, but can out-eat an NFL lineman, so I was expecting them to empty the shelves in a couple days. Instead, an amazing thing happened. And, I’m not making this up. They barely touched the snacks. The same items they would have wiped out in a few minutes if I bought a smaller quantity were totally ignored.

They knew a large supply of snacks were available. So, they were in no rush to eat them.


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