They’re Dealing in a New Genre: Fart Books
By Joe Bodolai © 2011, All rights reserved
First of all, I want to thank all the people who give me advice on a daily basis. This ranges from “you need to tap into the universe’s special gift for you” to “you should try getting a retail job”. I have some acquaintances who also give me advice about “accepting what the universe gives you,” which seems pretty effective when, in their case, it means the universe has given them the gift of now-dead rich parents, a kind of Darwinist “vaginal selection.”
I go into bookstores after spending time in their even more not-for-profit cousins, libraries. Advice on how to live is more common in bookstores, but judging by their recent history, I really would take their suggestions about making a go of it in retail with a grain of salt. Libraries seem to make all their money on “the back end”, fines. Bookstores are all money upfront kind of people. On the surface, it looks like they have a solid tried and true business plan – sell the shit out of stuff. And they do. Coffee, toys, games, and magazines are all available as well as many things that resemble books.
In libraries, you need really no fancy equipment to read a book, although a light will greatly help. In bookstores, it seems you can purchase specialized equipment. Instead of a quiet corner available for free in a library, at Barnes & Noble you can actually purchase a nook. This is not real estate but a virtual reading space, which is bullshit for “crappy iPad wannabe”. Amazon, an entire “virtual book store” sells their version, a Kindle, which associates books with kindling which I associate with starting a fire, something Goebbels is probably cackling about in his grave. I have no idea who’s doing the branding at Amazon, but their success suggests that it seems to work. No one is troubled by the notion that the retail chain most responsible for harvesting forests to make paper for books and then associate them with burning is named after the world’s most precarious rain forest. That’s some kind of genius. It’s kind of like selling vitamins on getcancer.com.
I just realized something. Borders, who went out of business, didn’t have their own book reading thingy. Hey, Wall Street Journal, get on this! “Lack of Fancy Reading Gadget Led to Readers, Including Doctors, Without Borders.”
I have digressed from my real point, which is what I promise you I will think of once I read what I have written before this sentence. Hold on. Oh, okay. It’s either about advice or bookstores but reading the title reminds me of the painful subject, “happiness” and its retail comingling with “farts”.
The happiness books are displayed prominently. Right as I enter the store there are tables full of them. Take your pick. Maybe you can buy two and get a third free and 33% more happiness. All I know is, these keepers of wisdom are not scheduled to read here and share some of their secrets as those times are reserved for the likes of Snooki, someone with the real sounding name Brooke Burke, and some guy named “Taboo”, which is probably a good name from a reverse marketing standpoint. I guess the Happiness Experts couldn’t make it since they were too busy being happy to worry about having to do things like show up and sign books for the unhappy. I think it’s a rule to hang around the people you are like or want to be like. That’s either a rule for success or just the mechanics of racism, I forget.
Okay, so it doesn’t bother me too much that I’ve never heard of these happiness gurus. It does, however, disconcert me that the table and shelves full of “how to make it as a screenwriter” or “unleash your Oscar winning shewolf” books seem to be written by people who have done neither. I may be wrong, but I think if somebody is kicking ass and taking names in Hollywood I might have heard about it.
Which brings me to fart books. I don’t know how exactly, but if Barnes & Noble puts them next to books by Donald Rumsfeld that include the word “intelligence”, I may be missing a secret the “universe” is trying to tell me. My problem with the universe is pretty much the same as I have with God – can you just speak to me directly and not through all these other people who, quite frankly, seem to be bringing a lot of baby marshmallows to the salad? Oh. Fart books. Really, do I even need to write a sentence about it? Okay. I will: Fart books exist. God? I’ve got a call in. I’ll let you know what I hear.
 At this point, one cannot choose the location at which they enter life on earth, although there are some fortuitous quick do-overs possible in the proximity of Angelina Jolie if you pull a mulligan on your birth canal.
 There is no reason for a footnote here except that I’m trying to make my pieces less “linear”.
 Pro Tip: title your stuff first, it makes you remember what you’re writing about.
 The term “comingling with farts” is more often a euphemism for riding the bus, but it used here in a marketing context.
It’s Over” — Nostradamus
By Joe Bodolai (c) 2011, All rights reserved
A week or so ago, I happened by the Barnes and Noble store at the Grove in Los Angeles, a faux urban streetscape of a mall, to find a huge queue to attend the bookstore’s “
moving your lips while reading series.” The author that evening was none other than the Jane Austen of The Hot Tub herself, Nicole “Snooki” Polizzi. The crowd was there to hear her first-person author’s insights about her hairball of keystrokage by a poor ghost-typist “novel”, A Shore Thing. Perhaps this roman a clef could provide loyal viewers of her smoosh-and-puke reality series, Jersey Shore, some valuable insights gossip about the weltanschaung hookups of her Algonquin Round Table STD-Infested Hot Tub companions, Pauly D, J bowWoww, and Mike not “The Situation” Room, the Mr.Darcy of the Abmaster. I have no idea what discourse transpired, but happily there was a Bath & BodyWorks nearby for emergency spray tan needs and, in my case, shower gel.
In related news, Cheney Administration spokesman George W. Bush commented on Snooki’s novel adding “I’ll be about ready to barrel on into that as soon as I finish up My Pet Goat.”
There is really nothing I need to say about the state of American mass culture today. This picture says more than I ever could. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll just go to the library. You know that place, the Book Museum? It’s where the homeless go to take a dump and poor people still go to rent VHS copies of Die Hard III. At least there I can get WiFi at the attractive price of relative quiet and an effluviance of urban odors.
THIS JUST IN: Snooki to Host White House Correspondents’ Dinner!
Expected to Bring Trademark Biting Political Satire
UPDATE: SETH MEYERS MADE IT AND ABSOLUTELY CRUSHED IT AT LAST NIGHT’S EVENT! SNOOKI PROMISES TO “SMUSH IT’ NEXT YEAR!
By Joe Bodolai © 2010 All rights reserved
In a surprising turn of events, tomorrow night’s White House Correspondents’ Dinner will be hosted by Snooki Polizzi of the hard-hitting documentary series Jersey Shore.Last year, the scheduled host Jay Leno announced he would be unable to attend as he was in negotiations with TBS to replace Conan O’Brien after replacing O’Brien on The Tonight Show. The diminutive best-selling author was then bumped when Leno decided he would host after all.
This year, scheduled host Seth Meyers became unexpectedly “unable to attend” after learning he would have to follow President Obama. Citing “not enough time” prepare, experts noted that Weekend Update, where SNL writers have a week to come up with a few jokes that The Daily Show and The Colbert Report do every night, was “just way too impossible at this late date. I mean, we only had a year! Look at Spiderman; they’re not ready and he has superpowers.”
Polizzi, who noted that “my name even sounds sorta like ‘poltics’ right?” was eager to jump in at the last minute when “dude told me it’s open bar.”
The poof-coiffed Guidette is expected to bring her trademark biting political satire to bear and her targets will certainly include President Obama but the diminutive zinger slinger said she has “a lot of surprises planned and also plans on “doing a lot of physical stuff, like smooshing with the Prez” and certainly is not afraid to fight, as evidenced in several segments of her pithy, thought-provoking series. When asked if she plans to outdo the memorable and sizzling performance of Stephen Colbert she displayed her rapier wit. “I don’t know the guy but if his name is Stephen Cold Beer let’s go!”
She is also famously remembered for her remarks to Michelle Obama in a New Jersey nightclub “geez you is usin’ way too much spray tan,”
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“We Shall Overcome!” Says Spokesbitch. Teach Celebrity Rights in Schools, Not Just on MTV!
By Joe Bodolai
At a splashy press conference held at Mr. Chow’s restaurant in Beverly Hills, the newly-formed American Celebrity Liberties Union (ACLU), made up of some of Hollywood’s most obnoxious publicists, today lauded a new bill they have managed to launch in the California legislature. The bill, they said, would finally “guarantee fundamental super-human rights for Celebrity-Americans”. Under the proposed bill, celebrities would be allowed long sought tax breaks, the right to own automatic weapons and hire private militia, freedom from “harrassing DUI and drug charges and assault immunity on paparazzi” and even the right to special police protection during natural disasters or terrorist attacks. “There’s no doubt that Celebrity-Americans are the country’s backbone,” said ACLU spokesperson Lizzie Gruntman, “we can’t have them inconvenienced during emergencies, let alone their fabulous daily lives. America needs them to inspire and lead, just as they always have. It’s time for the oppression to stop. Oh, and legalize paparazzi murder. I said that out loud, right? Good, somebody needs to.
Grubman also exhorted the paparazzi to be “better at their jobs and aim higher. Instead of horrible candid drunk photos, inspire us with nip slips and pantiless limo exits.”
She also pointed out the “horrible double standard” by which Celebrity-Americans have been “exploited for years” and demanded that Celebrity Rights be taught in schools. She pointed out “the tragic case of Martha Stewart, whom, she explains, “didn’t commit anywhere near as bad a crime as Ken Lay of Enron but because she’s a celebrity she had to do hard time while he, a mere rich crook, went free.” Sporting an officially licensed “Leave Lindsay Alone!” button, Gruntman also campaigned for the cause of Lindsay Lohan, “a young Celebrity-American woman who has been harassed by the jealous legal system with numerous drug and traffic charges.” She also brought up the case of Britney Spears, who has been persecuted in the past over “pointless inquiries into child care, marriage documents and the like. We must preserve Celebrity-Americans’ right to trophy adoption and drunken impulse marriage.”
The Union also agreed that they would lobby on behalf of those who are only “part Celebrity”, such as Snooki, the Kardashians, or other people appearing in reality (sic) television shows. ”These people need bodyguards, entourages, better free swag, and the other basics of celebrity life, such as VIP entrance to clubs and major sporting events and private audiences with the Pope. After all, would you rather see Wolf Blitzer’s Situation Room or Mike ”The Situation’s“ Room? ” Come on, that’s a no-brainer!”
Gruntman moved the crowd with her exhortation to “imagine, if you will, the aftermath of a terrorist attack, thousands of civilians or “filler people” dead or wounded. Cell phones wouldn’t work. Children and staff need to be contacted. Wouldn’t you want your celebrities to have satellite phones? Armed bodyguards? Generators to keep the Sub-Zero refrigerators going? Or private planes with Air Force fighter escorts to lead them to safety? Of course you would. We’re talking not only about the freedom of today’s celebrities but also their celebrity children. Who speaks for them?”
Gruntman drew her loudest cheers from the celebrities with her comments that “what ordinary people think of as ‘special privileges’ are, for Celebrity-Americans, just long overdue fundamental celebrity rights… fuck this latte is cold!” and threw it into the face of her earnest young intern. “You bitch! You know I want it at 167 degrees! Not your pasty ass body temperature and stop fucking crying!”
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