I’m talking about a book release, not the release you’re thinking of you creepy sicko.
I remembered that there was an all important book release that just took place. Yeah, like I actually forgot. I sat impatiently at first, then I got really impatient, then seriously impatient. Soon I was pretty annoyed. Then super fucking annoyed. Then, you cannot even begin to understand the level of pure, unadulterated annoyance that I felt.
I mellowed. The caffeine wore off. Then my friend, diazepam, kicked in. Ahh, for the love of friends.
Then weird and strange shit went through my head. Is it dribble? Will anyone read the dribble? What exactly is dribble? Then I realized that I didn’t have a clue. Clueless!
The thoughts persisted through my head. Then it got cluttered with important stuff like theme songs. HEY, it was important to me. Well, it was at the time anyway. So there I was with Star Wars buzzing around. Then Sanford and Son – not sure why even – then Cats. Can’t even remember the storyline. Then my mind settled on John Williams’ classic, Superman. Yup, that one. The exact one that you’re now humming in your very own head. Now you’re seeing Christopher Reeve (the only Superman) flying through the sky saving mankind from certain destruction from, well, mankind.
I kept it in there (still humming it at this very second!) and decided it was the perfect precursor to this new book that came out today, Twisted Sanity: Stories Beyond Reality. Heard it was good shit. Even told myself that as the dribble questions grew to epic – yes, epic! – proportions. It all seemed to make sense even though the book has absolutely zero to do with Superman or any movie really, for that matter. My head thought it was a good fit though.
So, I asked myself, “Self, have we actually, I mean actually read dribble or anything dribble-worthy?”
“Not sure,” was one reply.
“Maybe,” was another.
“Is dribble-worthy a word? Is it hyphened? One word? You should look this up. Go. I’ll wait.” I decide that sometimes myself is a real pain in the ass.
Then, as if sent from above or somewhere of explicit, higher meaning, it hit me: WHO CARES! Yes, who cares. It wasn’t the “Who cares” as in who cares with the proverbial ever-looming, hit-me-in-the-face-hard question mark. It was a soft, comforting “who cares. Kindler and gentler, like the IRS giving an ass-reaming audit with a hot poker of scorching barbed wire. Yeah, that kindler, gentler. Oops, think wheels screeching in reverse. Maybe NOT that type of kindler and gentler.
Anyway, it was pleasant.
The point is…