I'm sick and tired of clowns. I'm not talking about the people with makeup and squirting flowers that somehow manage to terrify two hundred-and-fifty pound men. I'm talking about people who write sloppy, perverted junk and have the nerve to call it a story. I don't consider these people real authors, because they really don't seem to take their work seriously. It's so poorly done that it comes across as a sick joke.
I won't say the name of the particular clown that finally made me leave the circus. They know who they are. I read their writing sample on their website. Within the span of a few pages, there were more graphic genitalia jokes and descriptions than I heard during my entire time in middle and high school. I'm not saying that we should all be Pharisees who socially ostracize people whose characters do more than shake hands. However, there's such a thing as discretion and tact. I really don't need to know how fascinated a female character is with her shipmate's package, nor do I care what her shipmate thinks of her mammary appendages. Not to mention that, regarding the former, I know PRACTICALLY NO women who like to stare at a man's package. To say that this author has a few things to learn about women is an understatement. Suffice it to say that I decided not to buy the book and unfollowed the author in Twitter. There really comes a point where enough is enough. I read because I want to enjoy a good story. Making me vomit does not cause me to want to read your book. Annoying me with crude, immature banter does not make me want to add you to my Kindle library. Senseless carnage and hedonism won't enthrall me. It will give me a big, freaking headache. So if an author clowns around and throws junk like that in their book, I won't read it, because quite frankly, I've had enough.