Fucking Auto-Correct

The number of times I edited The 1,000 lb. Brother, Part One is absurd! All because of auto-correct. Makes me and my characters appear illiterate.

In the case of any unusual wording for future posts, blame damned auto-correct. I beg you to please tug at my shirt sleeves (if you’re in my physical company) or send me a polite email at sazerfilms@gmail.com to let me know of this weird error. It’ll be fixed in a heartbeat.

Happy days or nights or something in between!

The 1,000 lb. Brother, Part One

Yuri weighed 1,000 pounds. The man ate all day and night. Never slept. Only snoozed for minutes at a time. The poor man had so many bags under his eyes, one could store artillery inside them.

Clothing Yuri was impossible. The only thing that fit him was a 20 foot sail that his muscly brother, Anton, stole off a boat. The owner of the sailboat filed a report with the police. Surveillance cameras showed Anton lugging the sail into his car and then driving off. Police picked Anton up and threw him into a musty, dimly lit room.

“Ya sold it?” the detective interrogated.

“Of course, I did. Needed the money.”

“And who’d you sell it to?”

“Can’t remember. It was night. Everything I do is at night.”

“Right.” The detective scribbled notes in his legal pad. “Man or woman?”



“Seriously, I couldn’t tell.”

Anton was imprisoned for a year where, for the most part, he paced his cell worrying about his brother’s wellbeing. How in the fuck will Yuri eat? The man had to roll himself to the bathroom and then piss in a sideways facing commode. Their younger sister was around but she was too busy getting fucked at nightclubs. Selfish bitch.

The year in prison was hard on Anton. Inmates knocked him around, busting his lip open a few times. The prison guards dribbled scalding oatmeal on his back. He only made one friend in the prison but that person hung himself in the tenth month of Anton’s sentence.

Once released, Anton hitched a ride back to Yuri’s. He didn’t go up right away. Instead, he paid a visit to a deli. Ordered two turkey sandwiches. Ate one on a park bench. The other was for his brother.

Anton banged on his brother’s door.

“Yuri,” he hollered.

Some nimble being hopped on the hardwood floor and yanked the door open. It was a tanned brunette wearing what looked like a homemade bikini.

“I’m Ursula,” she grinned.

“Ursula, hi. Is my brother here?”

“Oh my gosh,” she climbed his chest and wrapped her thin arms around him. “You’re Anton. Welcome home. Come in.” Ursula lowered herself to the ground and grabbed his hand. “Your brother will be thrilled to see you. He’s in the shower right now.”

“The shower,” his eyebrows furrowed. “How’d you get him in there?”

“You silly,” she slapped him in the gut. “He got himself in there.”

“Wow, that’s unusual…”

“Is it?” She smirked. “How do you get in the shower?”

“Touché.” My god, Anton thought, what a lovely girl. How in hell did she wind up in my brother’s apartment?

“What you got there?” She pointed at the turkey sandwich.

“Oh, it’s for my brother.”

“Only for your brother? Not for me too?”

“Well,” Anton stammered. “I guess you two can share it.”

“May I smell it?” She grabbed the turkey sandwich out his hand and then knocked him to the ground.

Anton went in and out of consciousness.

Paper rustled in his ear.

Then loud grunts.


Blood trickled down his head.

Turkey debris sprayed everywhere.

Deep sighs.

“Let me get you a blanket,” she growled.

Sudden warmth.

A fit man wrapped in a towel hovered over Anton.

“Why hello there, Anton,” the fit man said.

That was the last Anton saw until later that night.

Ugh…do I have to?

It’s 3:50 pm on Monday. I’d rather do anything else than write this blog post. Such as Netflix. God, that sounds wonderful. Lounge on my bed. Rest my head on a pillow. Space out to Ryan Phillipe kicking ass so he can reunite with his wife and daughter in Shooter.

The better, more mature part of me prevented myself from going down that avenue. Mostly due to the fact that I set a goal to walk at least 5,000 steps a day. Each week the step count will increase by 1,000. Today, I’ve only walked 1,341 steps. That’s no good. I got to get out there. Get to 5,000 or more. Please, God, let that happen before the weather worsens.

It’s amazing how far I’d go to not update my blog. So far today, I’ve used two methods of distraction. One, laundry. Two, disassembled the kitchen sink pipes to scrape the moldy gelatinous grime from within. The latter was a must as the water would not go down.

Now I’m parked on a bench outside the Mudd Puddle Coffee Roasters in New Paltz. There’s a slight breeze. Feels like a tornado could be around the corner.

Wow, I’m scrambling for words. I so baldy want to entertain you. I want your praise. I want you to walk away feeling inspired and take action. Yet the words feel flat.

When I work on the novel, it isn’t like this. The characters suck me into their ridiculous lives. I chuckle like a madman as I record their fictional mishaps and fortunes onto the page. There’s a gorgeous confidence when in novel writing mode. Also, I’m not publishing the novel until the whole damned thing is done.

This blog scares the daylights out of me. I tell myself the blog needs to convert the reader into a client. “Oh hire me! Hire me. Hire this half-wit! Hire this nonsense machine who writes children’s books for adults. Hire the fool who can fantasize his way through a job interview but in reality boasts in an off-putting insane manner.”

I admit, that last paragraph was fun to write. It forced me to be real. Maybe there’s greater intimacy between you (the reader) and me. If not, that’s okay. You’ll live. I’ll live. I’ll continue to show up at this blog terrified as shit.

Now, for the love of God (you must think I’m religious mentioning God’s name twice. I’m not. Just spiritual), I must take a walk. Perhaps you do too. Whatever you do with your time, I implore that you make it your best. I’ll be back when I’m back (which will hopefully be next week if I can work up the courage).