A contest for copy artists!
The Morning News site wonders not “why does anyone plagiarize,” but “why aren’t more people better at plagiarizing?” (I plagiarized that from their lead today.)
And so they are launching a contest to see if there is a “writer” out there who can create a coherent and original piece of fiction completely made from the works of others.
The Rules of TMN “Sloppy Seconds With Opal Mehta” Contest:
—You are limited to 750 of somebody else’s words; none of those words may be your own.
And for the rest, go here.
Peter Mehlman, former Seinfeld scribe, apologizes on Huffpo for plagiarizing a certain Russian novel. High-larious.
posted by writer @ 8:57 AM
7 Comments:
Any chance there will be some entertaining tales of college life coming soon? While it's nice that the journalist is coming out to play, the storyteller is far more amusing.
Almost as funny as the article are the comments from the people who just didn't get it, including a precious girl who fancies herself a writer and gets very indignant in Pasternak's defense and a wonderful adolescent Ayn Rand fan...
I am already anticipating charges from the jealous and less talented when my novel, "Middleapril" comes out. Some are well-meaning but unsophisticated, a topic I will cover in a forthcoming work, "The Return of the Naive."
I don't post anonymously except by mischance. Previous post is from me.
What I loved most was the one poster plagiarizing another...
Ah yes, I feel your pain.
I too am facing some similar flack about my new Pearl Harbor novel, "From Here to Forever".
--person 1
Ah yes, me feel your pain.
I too am facing some similar troubl about my new Pearl Harbor novel, "From Here 2 Forever".
--person 2
Idylls of the Starr
Listen, my cheeseheads, and you shall hear.
Of the last minute sneak of Bart Starr,
On the thirty-first of December, in Sixty-seven:
Hardly a man is now alive,
Who actually attended that famous game.
Yet, I hear Packer fans bragging, the varied tall-tales I hear,
all claiming they were actually there,
To watch that field fill up with snow.
Many and many years ago,
In a kingdom upon the Lake Michi Gannee,
On the shining Big-Inland-Sea-Water,
That a coach there lived whom you may know
By the name of Vince Lombardi;
All the world was Lambeau field,
And all the men were merely Packers or Cowboys players,
The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Green Bay eleven that day:
The score stood seventeen to fourteen, with but 16 seconds left on the clock.
Starr confered with Lombardi,
“O Captain! my Captain! our fearful game is almost done,
The champion-ship has weather'd every rack,
the prize seek is not yet-won.”
Lombardi replied,
“If you can hold your pigskin when all about you
Are dropping and blaming it on you;
If you can take the snap through the center and defensive tackle,
you'll be the winning quarterback, my son!”
Forward, Ice Brigade!
Their's not to ponder why,
Their's but to freeze and die:
Into the tundra of Lambeau field
Ran the frozen green and gold.
Go, you Packers, Go.
On, Nitschke! On Davis! On, Adderley and Jordan!
To the line at the endzone! Where goal post stands tall!
Now defend Starr! Defend Starr! Defend Starr all!
Packer! Packer! Sliding right,
To the touchdown in our sight,
What frostbitten hand or eye,
Could hall of fame thy symmetry?
Quoth the press corp, `Nevermore.'
Is it bad enough? Is it unoriginal enough? Do the rhythm, punctuation and rhyme remind you of fingernails on the blackboard?
Let me know!
Want to know the secret of my success? This poem came to me on little cat feets.
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