"Those bees are harmless now," said the guy, "but if anything ever happened to those wooden boxes, Katy bar the door." I laughed. I know someone named Katy.
Back at the boat, I changed out of my dirty clothes. I put on my tight, skimpy swimsuit and a clean T-shirt, the one that says I'm With Stupid. Also a fresh underpants beret. I lit up a cigar from the severed head of the comedian. It felt good to be civilized again.
Forget that the text of this book could fit on the back of seven or eight napkins, which would be more than enough to clean up a good-sized spill. In fact, it's probably a good thing this isn't on those napkins. My wife is always complaining about my "clumsiness" and "spills" and "drinking all day long," so I'm not going to look a gift horse in the mouth.
This book is full of left turns and sideways absurdities, almost every sentence finding a sneaky way to squirm away from expectations. And there's maybe 150, 160 sentences, so you're gonna get your squirm quota, no worries. I laughed often, which made my wife pipe up again with her "advice," but I refuse to be cowed. I really like alcohol. There is nothing wrong with that. You don't see me complaining about all the crying, do you? Emotions are so subjective. And this book is pretty good, too.