One for the Money

You know what's better than selling a book? Having a sixteen year-old tell you that he's using your novel for a high school book report. Actual unit sales rank a distant second to the knowledge that an English teacher with a masters in education and a minor in Native American Studies is going to get the lowdown on the size, shape and circumference of my love stick. To be fair, if you crammed all of my phallic references end to end it would only amount to about twenty pages worth of non-stop material. I think the real off putting part is that the other 310 pages are dedicated almost entirely to racism and well thought out plans that involve eugenics and chemical castration. I'm sure the 57 year-old female intellectual that's dead on the inside will appreciate the glue that holds all of these wildly intolerant statements together, too. In my humble opinion, there's a certain literary majesty in replacing nearly every pronoun and conjunction with an insult that's prefaced with foul language. 

If only I could be there to see the reaction on the teacher's face when she is debriefed about how I was motor-boated by a set of shirtless minors. I definitely think the liberal hippy with the dream-catcher around her neck will really be sold on the symbolism I include in my Twain-esque descriptions of the non-tipping tendencies of minorities. 

Seriously, I'd be willing to give this kid his money back if he provided me with the breakdown on the grading of the paper. I'm assuming the teacher will simply break a red sharpie over my paper and then light it on fire in an attempt to cleanse herself of the clear-cut classlessness in my academic-less approach. No matter how she'll cleanse the knowledge of my book from her brain, I definitely think this kid's grade and this teacher's reaction would be worth far more than the extra ten-spot in my bank account ever would be.