Running with stupid

Every once in a while I find one of those "important" books in the thrift store, and so...

And so, I'll buy it, and I'll read it, (or I'll read enough of it to decide whether it's truly "important" or if it's just shit.)

Like, say... The Shipping News by Annie Proulx - which is indeed, "important," because it's fucking amazing. That book is a winner. It's "important." But...



But then, there are all those "other" "important" books; Every lame, boring page Doug Coupland ever shot out his lame, boring, overly-prolific ass, and then...



And then, there are all those books that are "important," because they tell the story of having a big throbbing dick pounded down one's prepubescent, male throat; That's a guarantee: If you write a book about getting skull fucked (and liking it,) when you were thirteen... you have just created instant "importantness." Trust me: I read a lot of fucking books - I know these things.



So.

So, I found Running With Scissors, by Augusten Burroughs. This is an "important" book! You can tell it's "important," just by looking at the author's photo: Look how "important" he is!



And, even without the "important" photo of the "important" author, I know it's an "important" book, because it made the NYT bestseller list, and because the blurbs on the back call it "horrifying and yet hilarious."

"Horrifying," they say.

"Hilarious," they say.

But...

But, that's what you say when you're a book reviewer for The SF Chronicle or Boston Globe, and you don't want any of your artphagg peers to think you don't "get it." You say this: You say, "A memoir that is both horrifyingly and mordantly funny."

Um, bullshit. You fucking idiots wouldn't know "funny," if "funny" bit you on the ass.

This is "funny?"

"...and then the black triangle smashes into my face. I can't breathe through my nose at all. All I can see is black. There's something else in my throat. It's filling with liquid..."

Wait... And this - this is "funny," too?

"...Neil [the thirty-two year-old dude who just skull fucked the thirteen year-old author] stands up and steps into his underwear. Briefs. White except for a dark brown streak mark running up the butt..."

"Important." This book is "important?"

I got your "important" swingin". This book ain't "important," it's just fucking gross. It's sad, it's pathetic. It's fucking gross.

It's shit.

The publisher fucked up when they printed it - they gave it the wrong cover. It should have looked like this: