Tell Your Sheep to Bleep Bo-Peep

By Richard Crasta

From a widely published author and the father of three kids and of one kicking and screaming Inner Child that refuses to go to sleep or to grow up, this varied anthology of humor imagines what would happen if Jesus Christ, Mahatma Gandhi, and the Buddha walked into a bar and had to explain their life choices to a Long Island plumber. Or if an Indian standup comic had to explain his past to an American audience. Or if the First City Sperm Bank were to make a commercial appealing for deposits. Or if Ernest Hemingway were to rewrite a key scene from The Great Gatsby.

The title is merely the title essay of a book of varied humor infused throughout with a childlike spirit of rebellion, nonconformism, and of seeing the adult world--including the political world--as absurd.
Around 25,000 words

• Language: English
• Publisher: Richard Crasta
• Release date: Jan 11, 2012
• ISBN: 9781466111141

Richard Crasta

Richard Crasta is the India-born, long-time New York-resident author of "The Revised Kama Sutra: A Novel" and 12 other books, with at least 12 more conceived or in progress. "The Revised Kama Sutra," a novel about a young man growing up and making sense of the world and of sex, was described by Kurt Vonnegut as "very funny," and has been published in ten countries and in seven languages.Richard's books include fiction, nonfiction, essays, autobiography, humor, and satire with a political edge: anti-censorship, non-pc, pro-laughter, pro-food, pro-beer, and against fanaticism of any kind. His books have been described as "going where no Indian writer has gone before," and attempt to present an unedited, uncensored voice (James Joyce, Vladimir Nabokov, and Philip Roth are among the novelists who have inspired him.).Richard was born and grew up in India, joined the Indian Administrative Service, then moved to America to become a writer, and has traveled widely. Though technically still a New York resident, he spends most of his time in Asia working on his books in progress and part-time as a freelance book editor.

Book preview

Tell Your Sheep to Bleep Bo-Peep

Not mainly a sequel to I WILL NOT GO THE F**K TO SLEEP

Richard Crasta

Copyright 2013 Richard Crasta

Published by Invisible Man Press on Smashwords

This anthology of satire and humor is NOT any longer the sequel to I Will Not Go the F**k to Sleep, but is just an anthology of similarly wacky humor. Richard Crasta is the author of more than ten other books, a few of which have been published by established publishers in a total of ten countries and seven languages.

Author’s website: http://www.richardcrasta.com

All rights reserved by the author and publisher, including the right not to go to sleep.

Disclaimer: This is a book of humor, fiction, and fantasy, with the license to break all normal rules, including the author’s own.

BRIEF PRAISE FOR THE AUTHOR’S OTHER BOOKS (More Praise at the end of the book):

I Will Not Go the F**k to Sleep

Funny, sometimes with a Pythonesque goofiness, but often with an irreverent poke in the eye to those in power. Inspired silliness, political bite, thoroughly enjoyable.—Laurie Boris, Author

Hysterical and informative. For the rebel in you. Done with Style and Humor. Made my day. Thank you, Richard.—Linda Lundy, 5-star review

I must admit that I bought this book looking for a good laugh. I ended up with more than a few.—Alex Canton-Dutari, 5-star review

The Revised Kama Sutra

Very funny—Kurt Vonnegut

Humorous and irrepressibly manic.—The Independent, UK

Hilarious and delicate.—The Face, U.K.

Indefatigable good humor . . . considerable charm.—Publishers Weekly

Beauty Queens, Children and the Death of Sex

Classy humor. Get it.—Femina

Impressing the Whites

The reader laughs, squirms, recognizes his/her own hypocrisy and the blatant absurdity of most unquestioned social conventions. In this, Crasta succeeds in ways not unlike Sasha Baron Cohen's Borat character or Chris Rock race routines succeed, i.e., brilliantly.—Frank Feldman, Amazon 5-star review.

Table of Contents

Jesus, Buddha, and Gandhi Answer the Question: What Do You Do?

Across the Hallway and Into . . . Splat!

Tell Your Sheep to Go the Bleep to Sleep

Feed an Indian Child with 50 cents a Day: Standup Monologue

The Scott Meredith Literary Agency

Nothing Succeeds Like Success Books

Get Organized Now! . . . In Fifteen Easy Steps

Two Pages on Young Cats: My Exchanges With the Poet of Forking

Animal Funny Farm: or, The Revolt of the Animals

Weapons of Grass Destruction: Bovine Agent 007

The Bucket Kickers: Tom Wolfe Rewrites James Joyce’s The Dead

Hail to the Clowns: A Requiem for the Death of Presidential Buffonery

Jack the Politically Correct Baby Boomer

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Personal Message and Other Books by the Author

Praise for the Author’s Other Books

Jesus and Pals Explain What They Do

What do you do?—it is the question that writers and creative spirits, and all those who march to the beat of a different drummer, dread the most.

And what people usually mean by What do you do is: What’s your day job? How do you make your money?

You want desperately to respond: "I don’t have a day job, or a night job either; and I don’t make money, I print it."

But you might cause a commotion, so instead, you answer with a boring job title such as, I work in the nuts section of the hardware superstore, or I sell weenies.

And often, at a cocktail party, having received such an answer and typecast you as a mere weenie vendor (filed under Minor Operator, Meat Industry) or as a toll booth clerk, people will move on to someone else—even though the most interesting things that you do—say you are an environmental activist, a saxophone player, researching a book on espionage, a collector of Lady Gaga meat dresses, or a connoisseur of Addis Ababa antiques—may not be uncovered by this answer.

In any case, you hate the typecasting, you hate the question itself. And you think of certain revered figures who would also have done pretty poorly at answering such a question.

Imagine Jesus Christ, at 31, walking into a Brooklyn bar or a cocktail party in Muttontown, Long Island:

Hi, I’m Jesus. Jesus H. Christ.

Nice to meet you, Jesus. How’s tricks? Hey, give me five. [And Jesus has to really restrain himself from using a little Divine magic there and, as a practical joke, giving him six fingers instead of five.] So, what do you do?

"Well, I used to help my Mom’s husband—my earthly Dad, you know, his name’s Joe. My Mom’s got another guy who lives in the sky, up in the clouds, way up above the clouds, I mean. What can I say, she’s the starry-eyed type, and after all, it’s her life. . . . Anyway, my earthly Dad is sort of a place-holder Dad, if you know what I mean."

Huh huh.

I mean, Joe kind of tries to fill in My Real Heavenly Dad’s Size Gazillion Shoes for Him on earth, while the Heavenly Daddy-O takes care of more important business, like regularly handing out Commandments, including replacement Commandments made of more durable material, and dispatching bears to eat wicked children.

Hey, Jeez, we all have our Daddy issues, know what I mean?

"You got Daddy issues? What, your Daddy forgot to give you a hug one night? Give me a break! Your Daddy issues are nothing compared to mine—one earthly Dad on a wood and nails trip, one Heavenly Dad on a Someone’s Gotta Run the World Trip. Anyway, I’m down here for now on a 33-year assignment, so what do I do, what with both my Dads having their hands full, and my Mom torn between two lovers?

"Well, I used to help Joe, my earthly Dad. I used to give him a hand with his carpentry business. But then, I got bored. Wood, wood, wood, nails, nails, nails. How much wood and nails can you handle in one incarnation . . . unless your name is Woody Woodpecker, heh? Sometimes I would feel like driving a nail through the centre of my forehead and ending it all. I mean, once upon a time, I had big plans, you know: I wanted to expand my mind, explore my creative talents, discover the meaning of existence . . . know what I mean? Grind me some mushrooms and cactuses, go tripping into the wild jungle of my imagination, like Carlos Castaneda and Allen Ginsberg and shit.

"But this guy Joe, nice guy if you ask me, he means well, and he’s got a cool brown beard to match. Don’t think he colors it, it’s natural. Just the kind of profile that is perfect for portraits and tapestries and Holy Family trinkets, on which I and the Heavenly F get a small commission. But each and every day, all day, it’s the same old tune: Jesus, bring me that plank of wood. Jesus, I need a 2-inch nail. Give me a break, I say—not to him, but to my Heavenly Father. Can’t he just order his furniture from Ikea, and maybe you could put it on your Divine credit card, just maybe? I’d like to see someone turn down that credit card, the poor sucker won’t even see the lightning coming.

"And the Heavenly F sez to me, ‘Hey, son. You’re my only son of course—though tons of people address me as ‘Heavenly Father’, they’re a bit funny in the head, you know, and I’m not going to stop