While I was reading The Attack of the Killer Rhodendrons by Glen Chilton, I spent a lot of my other free time planning and executing a move. That’s no particularly small feat when you’re too suspicious and cheap to hire movers to box up your possessions, but it taught me some valuable, folksy lessons that you’ll no doubt find amusing. Like, for instance, throwing a mattress over the railing of a second-storey landing while screaming, “Your voice is like eight starving badgers gnawing through my frontal lobe” is a bad way to motivate your girlfriend to help.
You find this digression fascinating, right? I mean, I know it has nothing to do with the topic at hand, but surely you’re not reading this because you’re interested in what I’m supposed to be talking about, right? I’m writing this, so you must be more interested in what I was doing. So interested that it certainly wouldn’t be enough to just let my subjective experience colour my observations on the subject at hand; no, my name is up there, right under the headline, so you want my personality to simply overwhelm any larger points I could be making here. Great. Now gather ’round and let me tell you about the time a bad joke in a book review led to a weekend of silent meals.