Woody Allen Books

Woody Allen at 79

A short, serious about tragedies in life, referring somewhat to the scandals horror pastiche by book ghostwriter Karen S. Cole

Subtitled: Woody Allen meets his Bête Noire, Adolf Hitler!

One day around midnight, Woody Allen was chewing on his lower lip. You see, Woody had finally noticed his fixation on God. He woke up, startled, from his reverie, and realized he was in love with Death. The infamous D-word. Not the B-word, not the N-word, but the altogether underwhelming D-word. Woody, you see, had recently attained the marvelous age of 79. The D-word was looming ever closer. Step by step, inch by inch, it was creeping up on him that he may have hurt a little boy and a little girl’s feelings. Without anything really bad having happened to him, while he got away with doing so. Meanwhile, his memories told him that it had all been done for publicity purposes. No, that was impossible; this made no sense to him. How could that be?

Suddenly, Hitler was there. He was playing with Eva Braun’s long blonde tresses, lovingly stroking it. But he had that look on his face again. That look that implied all he really cared about was, Kill the Jews. Kill all the Jews, over and over again, until all that remained on the face of the planet was wealthy, well-off American Jews, who had to prostitute themselves through comedy and news programs forever. Until it changes, Woody sighed. Until then, I can’t recall whether or not I ever…gave Mia an enema. There was the night I gave her an enema, because she was sick and constipated and couldn’t get her bowel movement out. Gee, why are you never allowed to talk about things like that?

“I…had to give Eva a bowl of coffee once. I took some coffee beans, ground them up, waved them right under Eva’s nose…she frowned, didn’t know what it meant. “Adolf,” she told me, Hitler sighed right then and there in Woody’s bed, “You must be crazy. Why are you doing this?” She got up, Hitler sighed, and went into the next room. “You know, Woody, she’s intelligent enough to have figured it out. I think I punished her later for it by standing her up at the altar. But she wouldn’t pick up on my hint about drinking some coffee. Wouldn’t have done her much good, is what I thought at the time. Must have been that reference to my dying mother. Mom was home when she died in Austria, and for some reason I frigged out and thought Eva was her. Well, you know, I always used people for political purposes in order to get ahead.” Hitler sighed, scratched. “I thought there was something wrong with me.”

“No…You can have it. Take everything, take it all away from me. Later. They were all packed in there. Like sardines in a can. Yes, it was overpopulated where you were every other time, and underpopulated the rest of the time, wasn’t it, Adolf?” Startling, Hitler looked askance. “I just want a cigarette. Wow, they took over Bosnia on TV again.” Both of them glanced perceptively at the screen, but Woody wasn’t agonizingly happy about what he was seeing there. Not because of politics in Bosnia, but because the TV was suddenly on. He noticed now that Hitler had turned on the TV by using the remote control.

Like a giant misunderstanding, Allen thought to himself. You like one, I can’t. “I don’t have sex with boys. You think I am a boy, Adolf, and you’re not much taller than me. Say, want to check on that? I have completely forgotten whether you’re taller than I am.” And I’m surely dreaming all this, he mused nervously. I need to change medications soon. I thought I was only neurotic, and this is verging on psychosis now.

“What has happened to me?” Hitler suddenly asked Woody, who leveled a stare at him designed to melt Kryptonite.

“They obscured everything about your death. They wanted to make another Jesus Christ out of you, promo everything and pretend you came back later…are you Jewish, Hitler?” Startling again, as though coming out of a strangely veiled reverie, Woody reached for the pack of cigarettes. He threw them across the room. Hitler thought, they bounce as much as those Jews did when they hit the ground. The ones we sicced the dogs on, those German shepherds, easy to breed to kill people. Like that guy. He thinks I want to have sex with him. Gee, I just wondered what that was about. Well, it’s a mistaken premise, one where you pretend you can make the other guy pregnant. Then it works, obviously, Adolf reasoned…”I hate to be annoying, but are you gay?”

“I’m a greater man than you are…evil person wannabee.”

“That’s impossible.”

“You mean you took on more than I did. That doesn’t make you greater than me. I know what a woman’s breasts are for. They are for squeezing, not for ridiculous farmland references.”

“I went down in history as a homicidal lunatic.”

“You went down in history on Hermann Goering’s…twat.” Slapping his own thigh, Woody leapt out of bed. “I’m going downstairs, after I check on my two teenage children. Then, I’m going to fix an aging Austrian dictator a sandwich. You’re going to have to settle for a ham on rye with mustard. That’s what we have for someone like you in the house.”

Must be weird irony, Allen mused. He opened the fridge door just a crack. Heaving a sigh of sweet relief, he saw the sandwich sitting in there, untouched. The ghosts that had been haunting him all of his life, the voices, the imaginary sexual touching…he grabbed the sandwich and briefly thought about putting it into a bowl. Of course not. It’s on a plate, with an artful pickle perched right next to it. Something about a boy at the next desk, whom I wanted to love only in a humanitarian manner. Whom I wanted to show off as the guiding light…somehow nobody is able to do that other thing. The one where I’m all things to all people. Wait a minute, maybe I’ve got something in common with Hitler back there, but he’s just a spook and I’m somehow just imagining things. Well, if he doesn’t eat this sandwich, I will!

Executive Director of Ghost Writer, Inc., Karen S. Cole writes. Ghost Writer, Inc. is an online affordable professional ghostwriting services agency. We help book authors, ghostwriters, copy editors, proofreaders, coauthors and rewriters. We do book covers (front and back), graphics and CAD, digital and other photography, and publishing assistance. GWI has book and screenplay writers, editors, developers and a paid analysts service. We also do high-end pitch and presentation services for your book and/or screenplay ideas to major TV and film industry representatives.



Remember, only one “w” in both!

Let There Be Dragons

Science Fiction and Fantasy

America album cover

This rock band rescued me from the side of the road.

By Karen Cole

Word Count: 500 words

Well, once upon a time there were people, according to intellectuals. They said, “If there was not a God, we would be forced to invent one.” One day, two married souls, a man and a woman, got together but else-wise. I mean, they handily dropped all ineffectual pretenses, realized they were only animals, and followed a clarion call from Nature.

They entered a car that they owned, drove out to the desert, and stripped off all of their clothes. It was the Red Desert down in the American Southwest. They stuck their people butts up in the air, cracks in them, and began to run around in the desert like that. It took years, no decades, no centuries, no millennia…their passing generations grew smaller. Also, real people joined them. Many other “humans,” in fact, did.

After millions of years, they became small, insignificant lizards. Evolution is a process, and it can leap ahead through the centuries, and backwater until it turns into devolution, which is not Satan worship.

So anyway, it was a lot later, and they still had human brains. But they were different than ours, in an awful lot of ways. Also, the nuclear war that wiped out all of humanity transpired, without our “new” lizard folks. They just survived it, for no known reason, and the cacti around them kept getting bigger and bigger and bigger. So did the lizards. Natural selection began choosing out mostly the huge and more visible lizards to reproduce. You can see it coming.

In a few years, what looked like giant Tee Rexes but sporting the most mellifluous feathers, sparkling scales, gorgeous skin colors, beautiful attractive darks and lights, were stomping towards the former big cities. In order to comprehend their former selves better, they thought inwardly.

“Hey,” said Dinah, “How you doing, Horatio, what is shaking?”

“Earthquakes, we’re making them happen now. I am looking over the scenery, and it must be our honorable ancestors, the people. However, they are obviously dead from nuclear radiation.”

Another female got curious. She wasn’t as brainy as the others, so she strolled lightly over to one of the other buildings. So lovely that she was their Queen, she peered into an office window, gazing at everything inside in a loving way. Her courage was merely inquisitive.

“Oh my God,” she breathed, “There are still people in there, and they are doing…something. Why, they are groaning with their arms extended in front, moaning, rotting and looking…sorta like semi-naked corpses with lots of freckles!”

“Is it Mad at Mance?” crooned the King. “Another Zombie Apocalypse rudimentary dance?” He boldly stroked her errant backside. “C’mon, they know better now. Let’s take off for where we belong…you’re right. They’re what we used to be. Except some of us were far more worse looking. Well, it may be better than puking.”

And so they ate those former people, who were all grateful for the change.

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