Complacency sets in
I don’t have a book to review by a surrealist German author and poet who wrote forty-nine digressions that each barely spanned the length of a single page. I’ve never read such a thing. I also don’t have a thing to report to you about the devastating effects of firing a bullet into a person’s urethra, because the author in question has asked me not to relay this information. I have never – and most certainly not at a convention of plumbers – lectured on the duties of newly elected government officials to a packed audience and then retold an anecdote about the experience later. I know not a single thing about any Sound Expansion Plans and I’ve never uttered a single bad word towards any of the members of the men’s choir of Nevada. Furthermore, it’s patently false that I repeated a story to multiple parties regarding the tremendous yawning of a New York salesman who turned the corner of 82nd Street at nightfall. That I have, at one time or another, placed sticks of dynamite on my head and then attached their fuses to a kitchen timer, is completely made up. It is not true. The only truth is that every one of these events was not described by me, but by the author of the aforementioned digressions which I’ve allegedly never read, and which some seem to claim that I did not enjoy. But that is not the point of this review.