BREAKING: Moron Writes Book.
Even a blind pigeon shits on an asshole's head every so often.
Like many in my generation, I grew up thinking reading was cool as shit. A big part of that is because of PBS and LeVar Burton. (And of course, Steve Horelick, Dennis Neil Kleinman, and Janet Weir—the composers of the raddest theme song of all time, until the theme song from the commercial for the board game Crossfire, but that’s another story.)
I’d also like to give a big shout out to the Pizza Hut “BOOK IT!” program for giving out coupons for free pizzas to us kids who read enough books each month. You’re telling me reading equals pizza? Sign my bespectacled seven-year-old ass all the way the fuck up! (That was way back in the earlier stages of capitalism, when brands naively wanted their consumers to be literate.)
And thanks to all that reading, here I am, a now-pompous douchebag who gets to call himself “author.” (Apologies in advance to everyone who knows me and anyone who ever meets me for the rest of my life, I am going to be absolutely insufferable now!) Because being an author now means I’ve come way farther than I ever thought I would when I was a kid. Because when I was a kid, I thought the word “author” was just a mispronunciation of the name “Arthur,” the titular character in some of my favorite books. And so, for many years, I was living inside a lie (misunderstanding, really) told to me by an illustrated aardvark and his family. But all that aside, here I am: finally a grown-up, and also a published Arthur.
And look, I know you’re already salivating, because I was talking about pizza, but also because you definitely want this book. You’re all like, “Chris, where can we buy the book? We must have it! Can we rub our eyeballs on its pages?” Yes, yes, and yes. Just click the book cover below and head over to a teeeeeeensy little website called Amazon DOT COM. From there, just click one button. That’s it. And my buddy Jeff B. knows all your info, so he’ll take it from there.
And then, in like, a couple short days, this little fart nugget will shart it’s way onto your front porch, inside a vagina made of bubble wrap. All the deranged jokes, all the unhinged satire, all the demented, appalling imagery you’re gonna need to laugh your way through our current timeline will be yours.
This book is part satire, part therapy. It will remind you that no matter how fucked up shit gets, at least it’s so funny, you literally can’t help but laugh at it. If you’re like me, like a lot people right now, and feel, I don’t know, fucking helpless seeing the country you grew up in puked out of the butthole of an orange gasball made of microwaved Play-Doh, this book might help you realize, “hey, the guy ruining the world right now can’t even read,” which sort of makes it sting a little worse for a second, but also, is that not the funniest joke of all time? Ten billion years worth of evolution and scientific advancement, taken out by one dude, no smarter than a pickle.
No one can write a joke that good—not even me, the fancy author.
Thank you all in advance for your bulk orders of six to ten pallets apiece.
You had me until you bashed Trump, too easy and too much of a tipoff of the crap you are peddling.