Amazon isn't a person or people. It's a constantly morphing set of algorithms publishers and writers live in fear of. My publisher warned the title of my novel, How To Fuck Your Psychiatrist would send the book into the "Erotica dungeon," where few would be able to find it and it wouldn't show up on various lists, etc. But the ifs and hows and whys are impossible to predict. The constantly morphing Amazon quasi-brain changes its mind many times per second, or so I'm told.
I fell for the Amazon monopoly's terrorism and came up with a censored name for the novel, How To XiiX Your Psychiatrist since How To F.... or How To XXX etc would all apparently tip off the tight-assed, blue stocking, bible-thumping Amazon algorithms.
But after some weeks I couldn't take seeing my book's title censored like that. Really got on my nerves. Being forced to self-censor due to some vague Amazon threat.
So I changed it to How To Fυck Your Psychiatrist. The trick was to use the lower case version of the Greek letter yiota. It looks like a Latin u but is actually the Latin y when converted on the keyboard.
Amazon's community standards sniffer dogs apparently fell for it and left my novel in the "Romantic Comedy" and "Contemporary Romance" categories, which are very popular word has it, rather than condemning my book to the "Erotica" purgatory.
I really don't get why that's a nightmare but I've been assured you don't want any book there. Amazon "anchors" it so casual searches don't turn it up. You must go to "Erotica" section and hunt around.
So that's the deal. The book is now back to it's original title. You might still see How To XiiX Your Psychiatrist come up here and there on Amazon but it's slowly being purged.
The digital torch-bearing mob may reappear at some point. Impossible to know but for now, I'll consider it a victory...
New Year's Eve in any big drunken public space is usually pretty gruesome but Germans got their lederhosen in a big head-up-the-ass knot over attacks on women by gangs of suspected North African and Middle Eastern guys at Cologne's train station while 'revelers enjoy the celebration.' (ie: a big herd of drunks hanging out setting off fireworks).
Sorry, Mutti Merkel, not all refugees are cuddle toys!
Like any other population, they will include a percentage of young
male assholes and criminals, and they have every demographic "right" to
Germany wanted more low-paid toilet cleaners & geriatrics' ass wipers. They got em!
White Man's burden has come home to roost and the historical irony is pretty rich. The media tried to pretend it didn't happen but that backfired badly. I guess nobody told them about social media.
So some newspapers began to do their job and invesigators quoted police on scene as
checking IDs and finding most of those they checked, who were suspected of causing trouble, were
asylum seekers. Witnesses and victims said the men "looked" North African or Middle Eastern. So what? They're supposed to be
saints because gentrified German hypocrites want to polish their halos on them?
Being nice and pc and respecting women is not required to be granted asylum, as far as I know and expecting men from a vastly different culture, which treats
women as property, to instantly become Westernized and culturally-sensitive is a nice fantasy but then reality sometimes intervenes.
So who were the perps? There are over 300 cameras in the area but police
are loathe to release footage due to "political awkwardness."
The Euro bourgeois elite political class had better come to grips with this
reality soon or the goosestepping won't be far behind. Young angry men
whose lives have been destroyed by ravenous Western imperialism may not
want to behave like grateful house pets.
Goodreads is monitoring your reading habits by censoring my new novel for 18+ only, or any other book they decide belongs in that category.
My new novel is called: How To F❤ck Your Psychiatrist
Thankfully, that only provokes people under 18 to look for it. Goodreads as Mommy Boss Authority Figure. A great place in life to begin to stick up your finger, kids, and repeat after me: FUCK YOU, FASCIST ASSHOLES! Begin by saying that to your parents. They're not your friends. They're your parents. Don't believe anything they tell you. It's all lies meant to make their lives easier and less embarrassing. Your parents and your teachers, the police and the internet, most of your peers - they are your enemies. They want you to just shut up and obey. They will keep you in diapers forever, control and humiliate you, turn you into nothing but a byte of bullshit.
The fact Goodreads needs to censor work indicates they are a backward, regressive, reactionary organization which has zero faith in the intelligence of its readers.
They don't care about books or readers. It is an algorithm to make money, that's all.
Their goal is revenue; books, bathrobes or bags of medicinal dog vomit, Goodreads has zero interest in what you want to read when THEY decide what is appropriate for your age and fall back on the hypocrisy of "community standards."
Life is about censorship now, despite all the bullshit about freedom of expression.
Now it is most often self-censorship, led by social media fascism like Facebook.
Do not contradict the group on Facebook. You will be attacked and perhaps booted out of the group.
The message is Be A Sheep.
Agree with them.
Hang onto false morality.
Do not step out of line, you will be punished for it.
chaperoning Opium at the jammed apartment of Fil’s father, Max. He’s a
dyspeptic old crip who fancies himself an inventor. We’re wedged into his pack
rat life, a shabby little place in Christie Pits, owned by the noisy Porkchops downstairs.
A lot of incandescent lights are on, red paisley wallpaper. Tables and bed are
supported by boxes of third and fourth hand war books every chairborne commando
must own. A raft of plastic bags fills one corner. Max always asks about his
son but I never reply.
P. Mann,” he declares. “Whereabouts unknown.”
picks her way through this overheated overstuffed crap pad, idly scoping tiny
soldier figurines and boxes of hotrod postcards. Her black hair is in long
pigtails with red plastic devil barrettes. She wears Oxfords, white knee socks,
kids training pants and a child-size wifebeater. She sucks on a popsicle while
examining Max’s collection of scale model WWII British fighter planes hung from
the ceiling by fishing wire.
is missing his left hand from mid-wrist. I’ve heard a bunch of different
versions how it happened, from an inexplicable cleaver attack to the extremely
rare Doctor Strangelove Syndrome, where the hand was removed because it kept
trying to tear out his throat.
he’s using an old fleshtone prosthesis bought at a garage sale after losing his
yearly allotment. The losses are down to Max getting boozed up and taking off
the hand to play up some drunken gag and forgetting it on the bar.
off from the Transit Commission’s ideological purity division years ago, he
whiles away his days building dildo attachments adapted to fit onto a
universally swiveling mount he sticks over his stump, custom braced all the way
to the elbow. His dildo arm is twice as thick as his drinking and smoking arm
so he’s ended up looking like a tennis player.
Friday night visits from Opium have been going on for quite some time─months, I
guess. To truly get off, he requires a very specific set up. She must wear her
child’s underthings and sit in the oversized wingback opposite, feet dangling
as she reads aloud from a dumbed down fairy tale collection, one of those
volumes with the pop-up 3D characters. Max playfully menaces her with one of
his dildo attachments, making it rev up and down with suggestive zings. She
smiles shyly and continues to read, slow and unsure, as a child of five might.
After about ten minutes of this warm-up, Max discreetly wacks off under a big
coffee table volume full of those grainy old trench warfare photos from
Passchendaele and Vimy Ridge. Opium pretends not to notice.
watch Max fuck around with his latest contraption, the Vual 3400 Dildonator,
named after a dearly departed pal who Max claims was built like a Khazar
donkey─known among aficionados as the donkey’s donkey. Max has used the
mechanism from a reciprocating saw with a massive twelve-inch red rubber dong
mounted on a metal shaft. The thing’s thick as the business end of a Louisville
slugger. It’s powered by heavy duty cables welded to a pair of 24-volt truck
batteries sitting on the floor.
plans to patent and market his creation through “gentlemen’s magazines.” This
new device not only pounds up and down but he’s installed a mini gyroscope to
effect random wiggles, waggles and figure eights. Max has been badgering me to
ask Opium to take a test drive. Yeah, that’ll work. The chick’s got like a
fifteen inch waist.
skilled fornication method,” Max brags with a bucktoothed grin as he waves it
hits an On switch zip-tied to his upper arm and the dong begins a slow
articulated rhumba. A hollow section in its middle is full of colored plastic
beads. They rattle and clatter as a blue-lit greeting card diode plays the
Average White Band tune, Cut The Cake. The thing does in fact wiggle,
woggle and wondrously worm its way through a snappy little routine. Opium
doesn’t look up from her fairy tales.
a minute or so the Dildonator seems to get stuck and repeatedly swivels to the
left. The motor whines as the mega-dong angrily pogos up and down, as if
throwing a tantrum. Max hits the Off switch but no dice. The beast howls and
dervishes. Its centrifugal force almost throws him out of his wheelchair. Max
battles to unlock it from the gyrating base. It’s clamped on tight. He yowls in
pain when the thing almost twists off a finger.
motor bursts into flame, igniting the sparkle-filled red rubber phallus. It
quickly liquefies black. Max shrieks as molten effluent runs down to his
forearm. I grab the loco dong with the sleeves of my jacket and try to tear it
off him. The thing deforms in my hands, its slimy napalm ooze sticking to me
and anything else it touches. Pieces of it drip and run onto the carpet. The
rug catches fire. I stamp on it but the goop comes up in flaming strings stuck
to my boot.
finally springs into action.
get water!” I holler. “It’s an electrical fire.”
what then?!” she yells from the kitchen.
powder! Baking soda. Anything!”
grab a dirty towel off the floor and swat at my sleeve, now going up. The dong
motor spins and screeches. I duck as it hurls its remaining guts in a wild 360.
The distended nightmare glob twists and sizzles, strung between me, Max and his
chair. He screams again as more flaming black rubber splatters his face. I try
to corral it with the towel. It too goes up, a fiery white flag.
the fuck up!” I yell just as me, Max and the rabid dong get hit with a choking
cloud of laundry powder. The light blue crystals clump and smoke but finally
kill the melted remains of the haywire dildo. The monster buzzes and farts a
final time. Opium stands there, empty jumbo detergent box in her hands. She
wears an astonished grin. Max shrugs, sheepish, picks at the bits of melted
rubber stuck to his glasses.
The book is listed asHow To XiiX Your Psychiatriston Amazon to avoid that site's censorship algorithm. The publisher got away with the title on the cover art because it's not spelled out digitally. It's just an image.
Amazon maintains a complex and constantly changing set of censorship parameters that are altered frequently without clear reason or warning. However, this only applies to smaller and medium sized publishers and not to the larger publishing houses, with whom Amazon agreed to a separate set of rules due to the book industry threatening a class-action suit.
Major publishers are excluded from Amazon's censorship algorithm and can publish pretty much any sort of salacious title or cover they wish. For example, the original cover art for my new novel was a woman in a black thong and bra with her back to the camera and holding a motorcycle helmet at her butt.
Something you would see in countless fashion magazines, on television, billboards, anywhere. And yet, since some ass cheek was visible the image was deemed as 'inappropriate' and the publisher decided to not risk having the book consigned to the 'erotica dungeon', a place where searches can be difficult and sometimes impossible. The result is: How To XiiX Your Psychiatrist.
Some believe this type of very subjective and highly selective cenorship was insisted upon by the major publishing houses, as part of their deal with Amazon. Small and medium sized publishers like eXcessica, along with self-publishing, have become a legitimate threat to traditional publishers, who once controlled the book industry but are now struggling to adapt to and survive the end of the gatekeeper era.
First Amendment rights, as described by the US Constitution, apply only to the government suppressing freedom of expression among the populace. A corporation like Amazon can practice censorship in any way it sees fit. However, I don't believe their motives are moral or ideological. Their motives are strictly monetary, like any other corporation seeking profits. Amazon doesn't care if they sell books or bathrobes or bags of medicinal dog piss.
Amazon, in cooperation with what's left of the traditional book industry, have created a monopoly on expression - something that might be an anti-trust violation but the ACLU doesn't appear to be taking on that particular fight.
Amazon now controls the book business in the US, Europe and elsewhere. YOUR choices are limited to what Amazon permits.
It's no surprise little is said about Amazon's censorship. Despite all the propaganda about freedom of expression, nowadays it only applies to expressing ideas with which the majority agree.
Adding to the corporate control of ideas and freedom expression, Facebook has become the world's greatest promoter of self-censorship. Join any group of 'friends' then disagree with the group's beliefs and chances are very good you will be attacked and castigated and perhaps - horror of horrors - 'unfriended.'
The message is this:
Be a sheep.
Follow the group.
Do not disagree with the group or you will be punished.