I love cans of soup, but never in my life have I had a can quite like Campbell’s.
The tin was exquisite, and the soup itself tasted almost as metallic.
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 was honored by Mr. Volino to be given an advanced preview of his book, and to share my thoughts with him.
At the time I wrote, “I loved the satire and tone. Like Vonnegut meets John Kennedy Toole.” I know because my words are quoted on the back cover.
That is such a good feeling I had to try to share it with every person I know, and even many random people I don’t know.
But having read the book again, I’d like to revisit that sentiment a bit. While I am a big fan of both Vonnegut and Toole, I do believe Mr. Volino to be a superior writer, because he not only possesses a keen wit and sharp sense of humor, but he is keyed in on the ignition known as the economy. If that doesn’t start, everything else stops.
Like all masterful humor, this book lampoons truth and illuminates the mind in a way that a sincere geopolitical book never could.
Yes, Vonnegut and Toole both did shine a spotlight into societal issues, but nothing even approaching the profundity of Mr. Volino.
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.
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.