The "this is a work of fiction" from my current work-in-progress
  Lies, damn lies, and random monkey typings

This is the point in a book that the author says, “This book is a work of fiction. All characters, names, product/brand names and events are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real life events and persons is completely and utterly coincidental.” In other words, this is a work of fiction. And this is completely true for this book. Well, almost—the author did include an actual death threat that he received while he was working on this book, but that was only because he was shocked to receive such a threat just a couple of days after a beta-reader questioned the author’s insistence that all occult authorities have received death threats sometime during their career as occult authorities, and that death threats are simply standard operating procedure for some of the more dubious members of the esoteric community. But outside of the death threat (ok, it was just the threat of a sever beatings, but people have died from such things), everything in this book is lies, damn lies, and random typings from a roomful of Shakespearean monkeys that may be drunk on rum. Now, with this book being a satire, you might expect some truth to have slipped in, but nothing of the sort has happened here. Anything that reminds you of, or sounds like something that really happened in real life, is actually a lie—the author knows this beyond all shadow of doubt because they have been told by at least one person that such and such is a damn lie and nothing of the sort actually happened. And who is the author to doubt the truthfulness of such esteemed witnesses to actual events, even though the testimony that such an event is false and never happened comes from the very villain of the story in question—there is absolutely no reason to doubt someone when they say, “I did no such thing—that is just a lie being told to make me look like the biggest cuntcake in the world, which I am not. And while we are talking, can you give me a hundred dollars—my landlord is about to evict me.” Besides the author knows some of the stories told about himself, and how often the story he hears bears no actual resemblance to reality—for one thing, he has never been to a drug fueled orgy in his entire life. Therefore, any reasonable and trusting reader knows that if the author has been told that each and every story that he tapped for inspiration was a lie, it must be true and everything set forth in this book is a complete and total fiction. Furthermore, modern science has revealed that every time a memory is recalled, the brain actually recreates the memory—this means that even if the reader was present at an event and remembers it exactly the way that the author tells it, that their recall of the event is a lie invented by their own brain. Therefore, your memory of any event that the author tells here is a complete and utter fabrication. And all this means is that the author refuses to be held responsible for any of the stories in this book that some sick and twisted people insist actually happened—for one: These people who originally told these stories to the author have been called liars by the most outstanding and brilliant members of the esoteric community, and two: All memories are made up and are therefore false. For those who are particularly dense, this means you should completely ignore any story that seems to be about you, or your favorite occult guru. In other words, this book is a work of fiction. Besides all the really interesting bits of this book were created by a roomful of Shakespearean monkeys randomly typing up stuff between rounds of poker played with a Tarot deck—everyone knows that monkeys only write fiction. And these monkeys might have been drunk at the time, which means (once again) that this book is a work of fiction. The betting window is now open, and is taking bets on who in the occult community will gnash their teeth and poke sharp pins in their voodoo dolls while screaming that the author simply hates them and means for you to think of them when you read this book—for those occultists, the monkeys offer a gift of poo.