Trenton Broughton danger: high entropy

The Ghost Writer is... Invisible

Wait, Blogging Needs Words?

So I had this plan to become a famous blogger. I could really see it: Blog posts everyday! Amazing information! So I did what I needed to do. I sat down and started writing. Here is what I came up with:

Some of my greatest work
Ok, I was not prepared for this. I actually have to write stuff? I need ideas? Maybe I should have seen this coming.

Finally, an idea!

I don't have my own ideas, and I'm not so good a writing, so I'm going to need some help. Clearly, I need a ghost writer. I understand they won't be completely free, so I thought I should have a look. After searching around (i.e., clicking on the first result that had a price), I found Anthony F. Shaker, PhD.

Back to the drawing board.
But wait a minute, I am using a very sophisticated piece of modern technology right now to write this post. Obviously, I should put it to work! This could be brilliant, I wouldn't have to pay it, it never needs to sleep, and I won't have to sit around all day trying to make some words appear on the screen. All I need to do is find some inspiration for my machine. How about some Mark Twain?
The reward's bogus (maybe not: the water in England, after all).  We'd a signal, and I wanted the river, again: and he can raise the time.  Then the whole town: for Jim was no one, too, so I passed another idea.  This long, as I reckoned he'd say I knowed the turnip barrel gun.
Now we are getting somewhere! That is already an improvement over my writing! I just need to figure out what a turnip barrel gun is.
First result for turnip barrel gun.

Now it is time to turn things up a notch. I will try to feed my machine some Joseph Conrad.
Her, to perish speedily, might have been turned out for it was blurred as trenchant though her body. After looking on the devil, he snored very far with severe exaltation; enough to brag on earth. I began again: not to himself, adored, I felt I climbed the most merciless of logic for a tragic end, and all other. How they wandered here, no abilities; and a number of board: with ink stains on it, deadly, eaten by the great thoughts, the heartache which, as I looked pretty well, was grave and profound. A deuce of his speeches like a stone even apart had been poisoned, but not both.
That certainly seems more profound! I am going to have to consider that passage.  While I do that, I will keep my machine busy, and feed it inspiration from one last author (admittedly, one of my favorites): P.G. Wodehouse.

Put the same blighter into the good, sir.  Good style, and he had the will I wanted. To some equally brainy stranger, just to roll in as ugly as a crack under the situation is obliged to have put it to rest. A Rest in new York, by my child.  It's off.  And it got the country. It has taken a deuced brainy scheme to frontier it into another. That, and that I got through, you know.
There you have it! Why stop at blogging? With content like this, I could be on my way to the New York Times Best Seller list! Of course, I have to try one more thing. If each of these authors are that good on their own, what would happen if I combined them? What if we had Joseph P.G. Twain?
Corky (trickled into the man who can't Hear Caruso; puffed a holt).  I took it a mile, but at the very start was looking at all that had left.  Now, but at the edge of us, ragtime on that there any man!  Poor dear old town: for a worked up a learnt you know.  I was worried and, oh frogs! Why gather from one or maybe, I said, what from the kitchen? It was with him since half a great time, and then he was on lection day.
He's in another flash of your "I don't care nothing to it" off of mine. 
You're a sudden screech and thinking just then, I made notes and you didn't. Thar be a dead man! Say, he got clean till he took me out of the old Marshall.
I'm speechless! I predict this is going to take off, doing for literature what a painting of a rectangle did for art. Just because you can't understand it doesn't mean that it isn't a masterpiece.

One last word before I sign off:

Better things enough for a mind than letting it begin and take them, at first jolt.