It was a normal February Thursday in Chicago. (Freezing, snowy, and generally stupid, though with great pizza.)
In the absence of a hardy tauntaun to transport me to the supermarket, I was amusing myself on the internet and had just posted an anti-Fifty Shades of Grey link on Facebook.
And then, suddenly, it happened. My ability to denounce the aforementioned literary vomit was challenged with this simple question:
Have you actually read it?
And shock of shocks, horror of horrors, I had to respond with:
No, I have not. (Because I am not insane.)
My critique of the book was shot down, and rightly so – for how can I possibly cast aspersions on a dreadful novel of dreadfulness that I’ve never actually read?
In coming entries, I hope to share with you my impressions of this godawful piece of crap (confirmation pending), and hopefully a good time will be had by all who are not actually subjecting themselves to the horror of reading it.
BRING IT ON.
Note: If reading this book leaves me an incoherent gibbering mess who can no longer take delight in the gentle amber glow of sunshine or the innocent laughter of a child, I hope you will all remember me fondly, and see this as a cautionary tale of the dangers of delving into badly written literature just for the sake of proving a (n already well-established) point.
Farewell, my friends. Possibly forever. For now I ride into battle, perhaps never to return.