"Okay," I said. "What did everyone think of my-- person I happen to know's story?"
"Who would like to speak first?"
"All right. Eric Svee? What did you think?"
Eric fidgeted in his chair. He motioned over the ten single-spaced sheets. "It wasn't very plausible. I mean, this guy Harold quits the 'rat race' and starts a winery. Where was his start-up capital?"
"Mm. Yes. Anyone else?"
"Was this a farce?" Manny Lastnameforgotten said. "Because I don't understand the technique of farce."
"Yo, the guy should try working at the big red K," Tony Bilotta said. "Then he'd learn the true meaning of economic hardship."
"Are you saying my dad-- my acquaintance is a phony?"
"And another thing," Penny from 9News said. "The crash came out of the blue? That's a weird way to talk about the stock market! Squawk!"
Everyone in class turned.
"Total shite," Andy said, grimacing like Clint Eastwood. "It's complete shit. No matter if you elongate the i or not."
"Care to elaborate, Andy?" I said.
He cleared his throat, took up a sheet, and read aloud:
"'Borrowing more, put them in a worse position, as any new borrowing came with sky high interest rates.'
Okay, why oh why is there a fucking comma between more and put?? Did a monkey with AIDS type this putrid shit stain? And what's with all the highway references? Here, here's another slice of garbage:
'He thought, that would be a nice break from the office routine, and getting to LAX down La Brea, then shooting west on Century would be a breeze compared to the daily slog on the 405.'
What the fuck? Is this a goddamn Saturday Night Live skit?
And then the ending." Andy's voice rose to a shriek. "Listen to this fucking fucked-up drivel:
'Harold and Kristen rediscovered the joy of exchanging bodily fluids, between the sheets.'
Is that supposed to be funny? I haven't stopped THROWING UP."
"You're right, you're right!" I said. "And what about the phony bullshit about Dad not needing money and yet having plenty of it? He's like the bum on The Simpsons who doesn't need anything--he's not greedy so long as he has his gold-plated house, his needle-nosed car, and his millions of dollars. WHAT FUCKING GODDAMN FUCKED UP SHITTY MENSTRUAL BLOOD VOMIT."
"YOUR FATHER IS THE WORST," Andy explained.
"YES, YES! HE'S HITLER TIMES A GOOGLE, WITH SOME POL POT MIXED IN!"
"AND HE CAN'T WRITE EITHER! AAAARGH."
Andy and I both started screaming until we were hoarse, tearing the sheets and jumping up and down and pissing and shitting (but not farting, that would be gross) all over every retarded word. Sure, the police came and took us away, but Dad would appreciate that there was a point to it all:
WE HATE HIM AND HIS DIRTY SHITTY WRITING.
Love you, Dad!