Murder is hot

It's been awhile since I've done a "Book of the Week," and not because I haven't been reading books every week but because I have lost faith that you, Internet Readers, give a shit about the downfall of our society, and reading the comments on The Onion AV Club articles that invariably include eight misspellings, four grammatical errors and at least twenty words stripped of their vowels to "save space," is not helping.  

But you know what?  Fuck you.  I'm going to tell you about books anyway.  Cause why?  Cause Fuck You, that's why.

So, go read a collection of short stories by Flannery O'Connor.  It will make you depressed and hate humanity for reasons completely separate from their low educational attainment.  You will meet all kinds of lovely characters who come from the southern marshes and know the difference between white trash and good folk and have Christ on their side.  I just recommend that you don't open your book to the story entitled "The Artificial N-Word*" while on the bus because all of a sudden your self-important white ass will find it necessary to flip very quickly to another page to prove you're not a racist to the completely oblivious person next to you.

When you're done with that, you should read "I Am No One You Know," by Joyce Carol Oates, and see another side of depressing, from a more Northern point of view.  Then, you'll be caught up with me just in time to buy Oates' fictionalized biography of Jeffrey Dahmer, which I am looking forward to in what is probably an unhealthy way. 

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* Surprise, surprise, the actual N-word appears in that story title, as well as peppered throughout many of her stories, but I am absolutely constitutionally incapable of even typing it, which does not in any way make me less racist, just more paranoid, and tending toward imbuing words with their own magical powers.

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