It is astounding that a man that is absolutely unable to say something witty or INTENTIONALLY funny thought he had the potential to be a stand-up comic.
No, child. That's the comedy genius of Pat. If he was self aware enough to know his limitations, he would not squeeze those generous breasts into those tight shirts, or produce so much wholesome milk, stalker.
Rick, the Fat Detective made me

"That is quite obviously a cyberstalker account," typed the fat man with moist undermoobs. "And most likely is run by the person who actually messaged you", he added, pleased with his own sudden flash of porcine intuition.
"Heh. I am smart." thought Rick, as he thoughtfully chewed another carbohydrate snack with his mouth open.
A Thought started to gather above his head.
You haven't released a book in 5 years, Rick. 5 long years! Shouldn't you have something to show for all those nights with your breasts sweating over a laptop at Hoolies? Before you typed out "no, child" the millionth time?
Yet, as suddenly as it had arrived, the Thought was gone. Lost forever in a cloud of beer and pepperoni flavored flatulence, it never even crossed his mind.
The world may never get to read the sequels to In The Black, from the amazing mind of Patrick S Tomlinson, author.
In The Red: Failed science fiction novelist Taprick T Pomlinson tries suing the local space police in a desperate Hail Mary bid to rescue his ruined galactic finances. Unknown to him, the warm, fleshy undersides of his bountiful teats have been colonized by tiny green space aliens with an agenda of their own. Erotic hijinx ensue.
In The Pink: Queen Nikki of the Vagulon Nebula desperately needs vast quantities of rare nigtronium gas to protect the fragile ecosystem of her space kingdom. The only man in the sector who can be trusted to watch has just been kidnapped by a criminal cult of mentally ill space stalkers and the space police did nothing because he sued them in the last novel. Erotic hijinx ensue.