I know, I know, the title for this post is awfully dramatic. I know that it’s a bold claim to make that now, officially, literature is dead, dying, or a fucking zombie shambling around the countryside as a hollow shell of it’s former self. Many people would disagree, but that’s only because not everyone has seen the utter horse shit on sale at the bookstore that I did. I want you to sit back, dear reader, and allow the following image to wash over. Relax, empty your mind and focus ahead only at this text and the preceding image. Behold:
Now, if the first thought in your head is ‘wow that looks like it could be pretty cool,’ I want you to do me a favor. Take your hand, ball it into a fist, and punch yourself right in the face. Besides my gut instinct to burst into a fit of mad laughter, there are several things gazing upon this majestic piece of surly Shakespearean art does for me.
First, it disturbs me, deeply. If you notice the top of the image states ‘New York Times Bestselling Author,’ a title, which means nothing anymore anyway. Lets face it, every shitty self-help book and half assed novel is apparently a ‘best seller.’ Just because people read it doesn’t mean it’s good. I mean the Ghost Rider movie made money, but it still sucked so much dick it practically imploded on itself sucking Nick Cage’s carrier further into an event horizon of complete epic failure. Basically the ‘New York Times Bestseller’ tag on a book just tells you that it’s popular amoung the same populace that thinks Micheal Bay is a good director, Adam Sandler is funny, and voted to elect George W. Bush president … TWICE.