DUDES READING IN BARS

When I fulfill my destiny as the benevolent dictator I was born to be, one of my first action items will be to make it punishable by death for dudes to read in bars. Let me amend that: dudes reading literature in bars. If a guy is posted up, sipping a whiskey or macro tallboy and destroying a Lee Child, all cool. Magazines and newspapers are fine. Pamphlets are allowed although not recommended because that’s likely personal business that don’t nobody else need to know about. And the ladies can read whatever they want. There’s something hot and mysterious and French about a young lady at a bar solo reading Love in the Time of Cholera. And children can obviously read whatever they want although they should not be at bars by themselves. And certain dudes who can pull it off can read literature from a pre-approved list I will provide once I take office. And punishable by death is a little strong. Punishable by atomic wedgie. Basically, I once saw a guy at a bar wearing a flat cap and reading Faulkner’s As I Lay Dying and I wanted to give him an atomic wedgie.

REALIZING YOU WEREN'T PAYING ATTENTION WHILE READING

Unless you’re immersed in the groundbreaking comedy that is this blog, reading can be a stone-cold drag. Just saying, the mind tends to drift when you’re forcing down something like The Corrections by that Snooze King Jonathan Franzen. It’s just droning on and on about some white dude in NYC who’s bored and has a shitty family. Everybody has a shitty family, man. Go hit some balls at Chelsea Piers then catch The Book of Mormon for chrissake. You’re in Manhattan. If you’re bored there, you suck. At least go chase down a good drunk over at McSorley’s. But it keeps droning on and on so you start thinking about awesome stuff, like finally getting bowling lessons or how fucked up zoos are. In fact, you’re probably thinking about something else right now while you’re reading this. I get it. No offense taken. I could say anything and it wouldn’t matter. You smell like my Uncle Pete’s gym socks. See, you have no clue how I just burned you two ways to Sunday. Nope, you’re too busy thinking about how cool it would be to have an invisibility cloak backstage at a strip club. In fact, I’m not even paying attention and I’m writing this shit. What was I talking about? Oh right, how boring reading is. So, you’re forcing The Corrections down like cold broccoli because you want your friends to think you’re smart and you start wondering if cavemen ever laughed at each other’s farts. I feel like it was such a common occurrence that it never fazed them. Plus, I bet dinosaur meat toots are so putrid they’re not even funny. Still, it’s great to think about them sitting around a cave chuckling over a few air biscuits. And then your realize you have no clue what that last six pages were about, so you have to pick right back up where the guy is complaining about not being able to write that novel that everyone’s going to forget. Goodness gracious, just walk out your door and get a sandwich in Soho or something. That area is sweet.