We Drink Ourselves Familiar
While we’re happy to leave the literary hoo-ah to these people
, there is something we’d like to get off our obscenely muscular and hairless chest. See, the thing is, when we get on the subway in the morning, we like to scope out what the other passengers are reading, especially the distaff set. (There is no greater joy to be found in this miserable, filthy burg than to spy a really attractive woman reading a great book, unless it’s spying a really attractive woman swearing at a packet of Capri Sun in the street, which is something we saw the day we moved to goddamned Brooklyn. We also once saw a guy yelling at some bread in front of the Corner Bistro, but we digress.) So we’re filled with a kind of airy mirth when we notice the girl reading a well-worn copy of A Confederacy of Dunces
this morning, and we’re doubly impressed by the fact that she’s chortling like a lunatic. But then we sort of glance over to the right, past the Asian dude who has his iPod jacked up so loud that we can literally hear Chris Martin growing a vagina, and spot the girl with the glasses (pant, pant) reading the new Harry Potter book, which we believe is called something like Harry Potter and the Guy Who Stands Up A Lot
. Or whatever.
Now, we’re all for a world where people take the core tenets of RIF to heart––not exactly sure what those tenets are, although we think Lavar Burton might play some kind of supporting role––but we really have to draw the line when it comes down to the whole grownups-reading-kids’-books thing. As a public service, here is a litmus test to ascertain whether you should be reading Harry Potter books or not. Ready? OK, now pull your pants down. (No, we don’t want to do that; we barely know you and we’re completely sober. Besides, we have TMJ.) OK, so let us ask you this: Do you see pubes? Oh you do? A thatch of little oily coilies? Then you’re too fucking old to be reading Harry Potter. Quit it.
What to read then? Well, not to toot our own horn here, but we’re pleased to announce that our long-awaited biography of the world’s most stylish legume
has been picked up by a major publisher. (Hint: It’s the same house that published Updike’s pamphlet about felching.) We don’t have a release date yet, although we’re already up to Chapter 5: “Spats, a Monocle and a Top Hat ... But No Actual Pants: An Inquiry Into Mr. Peanut’s Psychosexual Mores.”
The advance was fairly generous, so anyone we’ve touched for drinks in the last few years should get their licks in while the money’s still rolling in. How much you say? Well, we’re not base enough to discuss that kind of thing in Cyberspace, but know this: If we knew how to write code, all our entries would be making the sound Scrooge McDuck makes whenever he dives into his giant vault of gold coins. There would also be a visual element in the mix, something like a 3-D rendering of us drinking whisky near a pond with God and various members of Three Dog Night, with the sun maybe giving us the thumbs up.