9/10 dentists recommend my toothpaste. Now available in a Brand New Flavor: Extra Squishy Pink Slime! (Tastes just like a McDonald’s hamburger.)

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 feel like I was an important part of this book

I feel like I was an important part of this book. I feel like the spine, despite it being an ebook, and me being as spineless as a bowl of pudding. Grab a spoon and see for yourself.

In a blind taste test, nine out of ten Helen Kellers recommended this book. The tenth Helen Keller, well, she probably didn’t hear the question.

In a separate blindfold study, readers were asked to rate this book. All eight of the kidnap victims said this book is the most enjoyable part of their last six days in my basement, and all rated it five stars—without even needing to be tortured that much to produce the desired answers.

Bauvard’s got a new play out?

From the edge of the darkness, Jackson thought he heard a woman’s voice calling out to him.

“Jackson, help me!”

Jackson answered, “Are you talking to me? My name is Jackson J. Jackson, but Jackson is such a common name that I can’t be certain your cries for help are directed at me.”

“Help! I can’t hold on much longer.”

Jackson raced forward, ignoring the fact that she may not have been calling specifically for him. If someone needed a helping hand, Jackson would be there to lend his. But before he got there, he needed to stop and give himself a quick manicure. Jackson couldn’t lend a hand if that hand wasn’t manicured like a mannequin’s.

“Help me, please! My grip is slipping!”

“I’m coming,” shouted Jackson. “Just pushing back my last pinky cuticle now and I’m off.”

And with that, Jackson began running. 
As he was sprinting through the darkness towards the voice and the abyss, lights from a street vendor appeared. An old man wearing a red and white striped suit and a matching red and white striped top hat called out to him, “Get the latest books, magazines, candy. Read the latest play from Bauvard.”

Jackson’s chin turned upward as he thought, “Bauvard’s got a new play out?” So Jackson stopped to ask the old man how much the Bauvard play cost.

“$4.99–plus tax,” replied the old man.

“All I’ve got is a five-dollar bill. How about we keep the transaction under the table?”

“Uncle Sam doesn’t like secrets.”

“Help! I’m going to fall to my death,” cried the voice.

“Just give me the play old man, ” Jackson yelled.

“Not until you account for the tax in this transaction.”

“Fine, I’ll put it on my card.”

“Can’t you read the sign? Cash only.”

“Ahhhhhhhhhh,” cried the voice, as it grew softer and more distant, as if she had finally fallen.

Jackson looked at the old man and started crying.

Tragedy occurred that night, because Jackson was never able to buy and read Bauvard’s new play. 

Oh, and I guess it’s also pretty sad that some strange woman fell to her death. What was she doing out there anyway? I don’t know what she was doing, but I’ll tell you what she wasn’t doing. She wasn’t reading Bauvard’s new play, and that’s probably what killed her.


What do you get when you cross Wall Street with Washington DC with vipers, vultures, and rats? I don’t know what you’d get, but I’ll tell you what you should get: This book.

I’ve learned more in this book than I have with any other book of his. I can’t wait for him to write his second book!

Seriously, this is a funny book, at times reminding me of Dave Barry. Highly recommended.

Love is like learning to ride a midget, which I’ve never done because I’m afraid of heights

Linda Sands is great. How great is she?

-She’s as great a writer as the Great Pyramid of Giza is triangular.

-If her writing came in liquid form, I’d drink it, bathe in it, and freeze it to rub on my nipples.

-I would compare her work to Hemingway’s, but that’s be insulting–to her.

-If her writing were a dinosaur, it wouldn’t be extinct, and it would eat plants, animals, active imaginations, and hopefully all of my student loan debt.

-If her writing were the Eiffel Tower, then I’d change my name to Pierre, move to France, and take up painting centenarians in the nude (not that I don’t do that already).

-If her writing grew on trees, you know it’d be organic and make the tastiest smoothies.

-If her writing showed up to a knife fight, it’d be the only one carrying a gun. And if I showed up, I’d show up late, and I’d be the only guy with a fork.

-If her writing were a stripper, I’d have spent much more than three bucks trying to get a peek.

-If her writing were a marathon, my feet would be bleeding from running it over and over again. Somebody get me some Band-Aids!

-And finally, If her writing has no objections, I’d like to name my firstborn child after it.

Naked Lunch: A Great Nude Eel of Ideals

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 love it

Nicholas Sparks is the flame of love. I think I speak for all women when I say I don’t speak for all women. So let me speak from the heart: I heart Sparks, Nicholas.

I consider “The Notebook” to be one of the best books I’ve ever watched on television. If you were to ask any of my friends (that is, if I had any friends to ask), they’d tell you I’m as romantic as a man whose left eye always tears up because his right eye isn’t a glass eye, but rather an onion.

Put it this way: If Cupid weren’t a flying midget in diapers, I’d consider that myth to be about my life. Not that I’m not completely convinced it’s not.

But even if I were Cupid, and I probably am, I still couldn’t write as romantic a story as Nicholas Sparks. He is the master of romance. And since he is the master, I am wondering if he is seeking an apprentice.

Nicky, baby, if you’re reading this, shoot me a heart-tipped, arrow-shaped email to therealcupid@hotmail.com. You make me swoon.

If this book were a hotel, it’d be Waldorf Astoria, only funnier

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.