I beg, implore, on hands-and-knees for you to read this book

Yowzers! I went to use the facilites (watercloset, john, head, lavatory), the other morn, selected a stall, put up those warning tapes that vice use at the site of violent crimes, erected sawhorses, and, for good measure, put up a road flare, all to ensure absolute communion with my new book, A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius: BOATS.

I read this sumptous, delicious, voluptous book with great lust in my four poster deluxe, craftmatic-adjustable, queen sized bed, in the can, in the van, even as I sat on the beach getting a tan. One does not read this novel, one imbibes it. Each syllable is so intoxicating that one could chill them, pour them in a shotglass, and serve them on the rocks.

This is a book without inhibitions. It has the thrill of perpetrating some terrible, Boston Strangler-abominable crime, and never being apprehended by the billyclub-wielding constables. My girlfriend and I oft tease each other over our neuroses (she has a throat-clenching, Jimmy Stewart-in-Vertigo-level acrophobia, and I have a deathful fear of Sesame Street), but sometimes, like when kids are play-fencing with styrofoam tubes and one accidently whips the other across the eyes, hurt can result. So it is with this book. Toph and Dave suffer a hate-love-hate-hate-the-hate relationship that is so poignantly dictated, it is heart-shattering. There are some rain-wearied, doom-clouded, gloom-choked scenes, and some light as a bumbershoot-stealing gale.

I was at a three star restaurant a fortnight ago (why is it that people don't feel that they're eating opulent and classy unless they are treated like cow dung smeared on one's adidases)? Arrayed about my table were ill-mannered masticators, soup-slurpers, bread-gobblers, whiners-and-die-ners (so called because they spend half the time whining about the food, and the other half complaining about how it shall eventually disagree with them and cause death-producing salmonella). There was one man in particular who (due to the fact that his ((uppity, French word)) were taking too long to be ((cooking term)) in the ((cooking apparatus))), was using so many epithets that I was tempted to get a toilet scrubber and go to work on his mouth (I despise lavatory-language f u c k i ng-d a m m i t!!!)! Another blubbery man was going on about the stomach pains that were inflicted upon him due to the intolerable wait and I thought "Somebody should flenze this orca!" One particular maitre'd was viciously being given the verbal cat o' nine tails. When, after a comment that questioned whether his lineage had resulted in his Neanderthalesque brow and speech velocity slow as "Ben Stein on downers!" Suddenly, the (assumedly), timorous waiter dips like one of those mechanical, head-bobbing birds, sucked up a mouthful from the man's glass of thrice-drained-and-refilled seltzer, and spewed it on him. I thought "HE'S READ !!!AHBWOSG:BOATS!!! SCORE!" Ivory-tower ignoramuses 0, gutsy maitre'd 1.