3. Vladimir Putin washes his underwear in warm milk.
2. Thomas Edison’s eyebrows always argued, and could never simply meet in the middle.
1. Francis Bacon loved his women like he loved his breakfast: in bed–the same bed he kept in Shakespeare’s kitchen.
5. As per Descartes’ personal instruction, this slot does not exist. At least I think it doesn’t.
6. Nietzsche rode a stationary unicycle to stay in shape. It had no seat, and he always exercised naked.
7. I once showed up to my internet date’s house for our first date wearing only a filthy, unbuttoned raincoat and an elongated display of my eagerness to please. She called the cops, but never called me again.
4. Orafoura gave this book his stamp of approval, and he even let me lick the aforementioned stamp (it tasted like warm milk).
Certain books are written without any consideration to page length, and lack forethought as to what dimensions constitute the perfect height for utilizing the book as a leveling tool on the floor under the leg of a wobbly table or chair. This book is not one of those books. Not only that, but if you take the amount of pages this book has, divide by Pi, factor in the Fibonacci sequence, and multiply by Orafoura you get the Kepler Triangle found in the Great Pyramid of Giza.”
As Pythagoras probably once noted, “a2 + b2 is not for the illiterate.” Geometry is the alphabet soup of math, and “Dolph and Erasmus” is the chicken noodle soup of eggrolls.
If you like adventure, I mean really, really, really like adventure, as in you think Shackleton was a sissy, then this book is for you.
Plot summary: (WARNING: Plot spoiler) A gritty cop, John McClane, (played by Bruce Willis) arrives in the Big Apple to spend Christmas with his main squeeze (played by Doris Orange). Upon entering her office building he discovers that it, like Poland in 1939, has been invaded and occupied by a German genius with a mustache.
This evil mastermind, Hans Gruber, (played by Severus Snape from Harry Potter) turns out to be only interested in money, much to the chagrin of McClane’s wife, who has fallen madly in love with him in what psychologists refer to as Stockholm Syndrome (named after the city in Germany following the kidnapping of Poland in 1939).
Wait, maybe that’s not a synopsis of “Dolph and Erasmus” at all, but rather a description of the movie “Das Boot,” which means, loosely translated, “The Shoe,” or more precisely, “The Boot.”
Some books are meant to be read, expanding our mind with every clever turn of phrase, while other books only let us reach greater heights by being stacked up and stood on. This book is not to be stepped on, except mentally, like an escalator, as it takes us to places we have never been before.
Should you purchase this book? In the immortal word of Peter Sellers, “Buy.” Yes, buy this book. That’s my advice and recommendation.
I once read a farewell letter that said, “Goodbye my love. I’m starving and trapped in the mountains. I want to write you a longer letter, but now, out of desperation, I’m forced to eat my other arm. My only two regrets in life are that I couldn’t have spent my final moments with you, and that I am wearing my brother’s shirt right now and I’ve managed to get blood all over it. After they find my body, do you think you could have this shirt dry cleaned and return it to him? Well, I’ve got to go–it’s lunchtime. Now I wish I had taken Orafoura’s advice and kept packets of ketchup in my wallet at all times.”
Do you know who wrote that letter? My brother. (Yes, I did get my shirt back, and yes, the stains did come out).
Well, Scott Gandert’s book reminds me a lot of my brother, except his book doesn’t have shaggy blonde hair, a wooden leg, an eye patch, and a parrot on his shoulder. Wait, that was a generic description of a pirate, which is something my brother definitely did not look like. But if you could reverse-personify a person, and make that person into an inanimate object, my brother would have been like this book: Funny, sweet, and short (my brother was only 62 pages tall).
But after reading this book, I am convinced that Scott Gandert is the Steve McQueen of literature. This book has a hip, free-flowing style that makes “On The Road” feel like a series of speed bumps. And I have a confession to make. I actually don’t have a brother. But this book made me wish that I did have a brother, one like Scott, and that my memories were more like his memories. Real or imagined, his recollections serve to bring you closer to home, even if you never lived there.