You never learn more about customer service than you do when you’re in the trenches of a Great War.
There I was, in WWI, being attacked on all sides by the Vietnamese jungle, when I found myself out of Adult Diapers.
With my Portable Vending Machine out of commission, due to its wheelbarrow’s tire having been shot off by IRS agents, I was in desperate need of assistance.
That’s when I saw him. He floated down from the clouds like a bronzed statue of Beyonce, wearing golden roller skates and a nametag that said, “Kevin.”
I noticed Kevin was carrying a scroll, and without reading it I knew its contents. This was The Lost Secrets of Customer Service, rumored to have burnt up with the Library of Alexandria.
That’s when a #TruthBomb exploded next to me, leaving me disoriented and discombobulated.
As if by osmosis, I was absorbing all The Archaic Wisdom of The Sages Throughout The Ages.
I felt empowered, as if I could hop directly from being a fry cook at McDonald’s all the way up to cashier, maybe even surpassing the friendliness and performance of The Kiosks, who make great friends, but poor co-workers, both because they stole all the glory that should have been mine and because they don’t get paid for the work that they do.
No longer would Dennis, my 16-year-old boss, treat me like I was some sort of needy infant, always demanding money in exchange for labor. Now Dennis would see my True Value, and would reward me accordingly. Soon I’d be richer than Solomon, and wiser too, armed with the knowledge obtained in this book.
I’m rating this book five stars, because Amazon caps the limit. But if I could, I’d rate it like Abraham’s seed, as it deserves to accumulate all the stars of heaven. This is a book for all generations, and the best time to buy it is yesterday. But you can’t, so I suppose RIGHT NOW is the silver medalist of perfect times to buy.
I’d like to meet a guy named Art. I’d take him to a museum, hang him on the wall, criticize him and leave. And as well all know, Art is the shortened version of Arthur, with the most famous Arthur in history being the legendary king Arthur. King Arthur represents the Anglo Saxons, well before the introduction of the Latinate tongue coming into Britain. Old English was the common tongue, or vulgate, of which the word vulgar is derived. Today, vulgar has come to mean coarse language, typically scatological in nature. That makes vulgar a word with low brow connotations associated with it.
William Burroughs’s novel, Naked Lunch, could be described as vulgar in both the old world sense of the word, and it’s modern usage. Burroughs utilizes a high concentration (this is a Latinate word) of Anglo Saxon words, as well as a smattering of foul and raunchy language which would come to represent the vulgar we know and recognize today. So on the surface, Naked Lunch is a low brow piece of art.
But I think Naked Lunch is more than just a series of shockingly violent homosexual scenes and illicit drug use. I feel Naked Lunch is the epitome of a high brow work of art, in that it’s filled with brilliant, cutting edge satire and witticisms that match anything produced by Pulitzer prize winning author Dave Barry. And Naked Lunch’s surrealness is on par with any sketch of Monty Python’s, and the truth behind Burroughs’s humor I’d parallel to the power of Mark Twain’s precise epigrams…
Because of the high level of creativity and imagination within Naked Lunch, I feel that it is much more than a book for the common man. It is packed full of enlightening concepts, ideas. And ideas are like legs–what good are they if you can’t run with them or spread them like green, ghost-like junky legs?
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.