I’m So Excited to Join Your Book Club!
Hi, everyone! I’m so excited you invited me to join your book club!
I mean, I asked to join, and everybody said, “Okay, I guess.” Except for Celia who was having some kind of fit because I saw her violently shaking her head out of the corner of my eye. I hope she’s on medication for that.
And I brought snacks! Everybody likes little boxes of raisins!
Not to brag, but I’m not just a reader — I’m a writer, too! My work has appeared in a bunch of places, like The Funny Times and The Christian Science Monitor.
Okay, well, they’re both really famous publications and the fact that you’ve never heard of them is making me doubt your literacy just the teensiest bit.
I’m in the same place as re-prints of Dave Barry and Andy Borowitz columns!
Nothing? Really? Dave Barry, one of America’s preeminent humor writers.
Oh, “He’s old, right?” Yes, Ashley, Dave Barry is fucking old. He’s famous for living in Miami and writing about his colon. We should all aspire to be Dave Barry.
I’d also like to be Dave Sedaris, a small gay man who lives in France and walks 20 miles a day picking up trash by the side of the road. No, I’m not making that up.
Anyway, since I’m a writer and all, I hope my analysis of the literature we peruse isn’t too erudite or solipsistic.
We writers like to use big words like that, so keep those dictionaries handy!
Right now I’m reading The Five-Star Weekend by Elin Hilderbrand, which I heard some of you refer to disparagingly as a “beach read”.
I don’t know how many of you have actually tried reading a book at the beach, but it ain’t easy. Snotty kids, drunk parents, fucking birds all over the place.
You try reading a book while lithe 20-somethings play volleyball wearing nothing but Handi Wipes held together by dental floss.
Apparently you all are reading Horse by Geraldine Brooks. Wow, 416 pages. The stuff I write usually tops out at around 500 words, so I’m going to say neigh to Horse.
Get it? Neigh, nay?
Stop pushing. I didn’t want to be part of your stupid book club anyway. You people wouldn’t know Ayn Rand from Rand McNalley.
And don’t read any of my oeuvre. Especially you, Celia. I’ll know.