If at first you don’t succeed white men, remember your mantra

There’s just so much talk lately about white heterosexual men by white heterosexual men pissed the fuck off they’re not pick an alphabet pronoun drinking game noun to be suitable to get into the American literary game writing men’s adventure fiction, adventure fiction, something something fucking Indiana Jones with a lot of fucking, killing, and a dash of John Wayne racism.

Ain’t saying they’re wrong, because I know a lot of the white heterosexual menfolk and they got a legit beef, alongside all the non-BIPOC, non-token blacks and everybody else shitted on or scorned by PenguinRandomSchuster and Amazon. Of course, most, not all, of the white heterosexual men bitching have forgotten about the times past, when, before 1970 the industry was exactly that – predominately white heterosexual men writing every fucking thing about everybody, everywhere.

One of those white heterosexual men that did it damn well in that era was Sidney Sheldon.

Fuck yes, I’m Team Muvah Collins until the wheels fall off, but I’m also very much Ride Or Die Team Sidney Sheldon. When I was inch high to a thigh (as I grew taller kind of late), I read Sheldon non-stop. With Sheldon it’s not what’s your favorite, all time book. It’s how many are your favorites. For a old ass white heterosexual man writing cheeseball shit like I Dream Of Jeanine that I’m sure helped the white heterosexual male teenagers in the early 1970s get through their first hard ons and masturbatory moments before discovering Playboy, dude didn’t do too fucking bad if you think about it. My top Sheldon masterpiece novels are If Tomorrow Comes, The Other Side Of Midnight, Sands Of Time, and my most prized read, Master Of The Game.

Master Of The Game is the incredible story of James McGregor and his descendants, told in three historical adventure fiction parts that you just can’t put down.

In part one we meet James McGregor, a poor ass Irishman bastard that sought fortune and fame mining diamonds in South Africa after the Boer War. The bushy tailed, bright eyed young man eventually becomes swindled and left for dead by religious nut Salomon van der Merwe, who owns the dry goods shop and has this hot thirsty virginal thot of a daughter, Maggie, he creepily seems to be keeping for himself. Surviving with the help of van der Merwe’s African liege Banda (who can’t stand van der Merwe’s ass), he gets his revenge not only on him, but on the entire town of Klipdrift, building his vast fortune. He pretty much holds his revenge in place until a series of unforeseen consequences of his revenge rear their ugly heads and come back and bite him on the short and curlys.

In part two we meet his heir apparent successor Kate McGregor, who is both ruthless and cunning bitch on Judas Priest wheels without vengeance just as part of her nature. In a time where women are not really expected nor allowed to have power, affluency outside of a husband, or business sense, Kate’s a quick study on using what she has to get what she wants, and is the first book I ever said “damn, this bitch right here” a few times reading it. Like her father, her best laid plans have consequences that affect not only her, but everybody around her as her obsession with keeping the family’s company going strong consumes her, especially after she abandons Africa and pulls up stakes permanently to America. And no, her wheels never fall off. That bitch keeps it moving as a second skin.

In part three we meet Kate’s granddaughters Eve and Alexandria, identical twins that she’s raising due to some of Kate’s consequences meddling in her son Tony’s life. Alexandria is sweet and kindhearted like her mother, while Eve is a crazier bitch that you could say is the second coming of Damien with the McGregor vengeance line coursing through her veins. Like the rest of her lineage, her schemes and obsessions cost her dearly, and she above off pays the ultimate price for extending her influence beyond reasonable means, as her sister lives her best life ever breaking free of the family’s influence by shuttering any aspirations of dealing with family business forever.

Now I’ve kept my synopsis short and sweet, mostly because Master of The Game is an experience. Reading it is like busting your literary cherry – either you’re having the time or your life and it feels fan-fucking-tastic or it hurts like hell and you’re regretting life decisions doing it. It’s male fiction, adventure fiction, historical fiction with enough sex (not Muvah Collins level of fucking but enough), violence, and the backdrop of real inhuman shit going on in history to keep you drooling and thirsting for more. It’s long as hell – the paperback is 500+ words, but its so damn good you don’t notice nor will you fucking care once you’re knee deep in the Sidney Sheldon shit.

So next time you’re perusing substack, and the white heterosexual men are having their hen party about the racism they face in American literature, tell them to get their balls up and their pecker down and read motherfucking Master Of The Game. It’s the 29th Constitutional Amendment. Thou shall, before thy dies, read motherfucking Sidney Sheldon.

It’s real hard to remind PenguinRandomSchuster about the storytelling masters if you haven’t studied their works.

Now go forth and free your mind for Sidney Sheldon so your ass can follow.