May 13, 2008

Barbara Walters Eats a Bag of Raw Dicks For Breakfast: Publishes Book of Penis Breath Poetry By Midnight

Blogger, as usually, is completely fucking pissing me off. I don't know why this is blue or underlined, when in fact the only buttons lit up in the shitass text editor are Bold and LeftJustification (neither of which I requested anyway).

How's this? Better? Oh, I deselected bold, so that would mean bold comes on and underline goes away? All I want to do is try out this new Blogger Days-Of-Future-Post, but if this doesn't stop I'm going to knock it in to the middle of next week. Manually. Manfully. If I actually had nipple cannons, I would seriously shoot out the G's in Blogger. Now that I'm all fired up (and things seem to be working again), I suppose I should blog...

Barbara Walters wrote a book and I didn't read it, but I'm going to review it anyway. It's called Memoirs or Confessions or maybe just Walters. It really doesn't matter. Judging the book on the cover alone (which is totally a valid reviewing technique in this blogosphere), I believe the story of Barbara Wawa's life involves lots of gold and silver. It's also probably really boring. She should have spent more time putting some cooler pictures on the front like a snake or a ambulance exploding and maybe I'd look at it twice. If there was a different ambulance exploding on every page, we'd have a best seller for sure, but unfortunately, this book didn't sell a single copy last week when it came out.

Walters' publisher Walter's published waiter had this to say "I didn't buy Confessions or whatever it's called because it probably sucked. Plus I already bought a book this year--Maria Shriver's book!" I bought Maria Shriver's book because it had a picture of one of Arnold Schwarzeneggar's sperm on the cover, and I assumed it would be about hardcore sex with the Governor of Balloonish Sperminators. Actually, that book sucked too. Because it was a book. And books typically suck.

Anyway, so Barbara Walters' book had a bunch of confessions in it, which makes sense since that's what the book is called. She talked about her favorite colors, what it was like to make soup in "the old days" and probably talked about reading books, and what it was like to write a book, and there was a chapter or two about Oprah, and another chapter about Oprah's books. There may have been a part where she talked about pets. I skipped that section because I'm wicked allergic to cats.

Then when I was just about to go to sleep, things got really different. She started talking about sneaking out in the woods to bang wolves as a teenager. And how she kept a porcelain gun strapped to her thigh just in case she ever decided to murder Jimmy Carter. And the time when she became the first woman to sew up her own vagina with a rusty fish hook and a piece of al dente spaghetti (on national television) while Martha Stewart and Rosie O'Donnell did whippets and smeared a baby shit and bleu cheese soufflé all over an unconscious stagehand. I don't know why any of this hasn't been brought up in the media yet. The pictures alone were worth the inflated hardcover price of $28.95 USD.

I think Annie Liebowitz took those shots. She's always so controversial.

1 comment:

teh Beauty said...

Poetry sir. Pure poetry.