It's been known for some time that Jersey Shore's "Snooki", aka Nicole Polizzi, has been hard at work penning a novel. It's not uncommon for celebrities, particularly those who possess a GED-level understanding of the English language, to hire a ghost writer to assist them in putting words to paper. While it's no surprise that Snooki followed suit, what IS unusual is who she selected to help her write her novel: one of the torchbearers of modern American literature, Cormac McCarthy. What follows is a brief excerpt from All The Pretty Bennies, sure to enter the pantheon of modern fiction.
Gia spoke in an english learned largely from schoolbooks and he tested each phrase for the meanings he wished to hear, repeating them silently to himself and then questioning them anew. She said she was glad he had come. He had an ok body. Not fat at all. And naturally toned abs. She could pour a shot of tequila down his belly and slurp it out of his navel without getting splashed in the face.
I told you I would.
They turned, the trumpet rapped.
Did you not think I would? Any juicehead will get some nut shrinkage. And bacne. They fly into a 'roid rage, it is a 'road' 'roid rage.
She tossed back her head and looked at him, smiling, her eyes aglint. Al contrario, she said. I knew you would come. I love food. I love drinking, boys, dancing until my feet swell. I love my family, my friends, my job, my boss. And I love my body, especially the badonk.
At the band's intermission they made their way to the refreshment stand and he bought two lemonades in paper cones and they went out and walked in the night air. They walked along the road and there were other couples in the road and they passed and wished them a good evening. The air was cool and it smelled of earth and perfume and horses. Gia danced around a little, shaking her peaches for show. She shook it hard. Too hard. In the middle of a shimmy, her stomach cramped. A fart slipped out. A loud one. And stinky.
The film version of All The Pretty Bennies, written, directed by, and starring James Franco (and featuring "Snooki" as "Gia"), will be released in December 2011, in IMAX 3D. Portions of this work previously appeared in the New York Post.
Best of. Top Ten. Top Five. Year's Most. All ways of attaching meaning to the previous 365 days. A year's a bestiary. Fierce creatures and benign, some of which cast long shadows, some of which are too small for even the Sun to notice. Better still: a year is a packed subway train, hurtling towards that final destination. Days are passengers, all different, some in shorts and flipflops, some wearing business suits, each to their own. Sure, there's a few that link together, like conjoined twins or The Human Centipede. But to make sense of a year, to say that it was "good" or "bad"? Might as well say the same thing about the earth, or the Universe.
So. Imagery. This is what we get during these waning days. And isn't it true that The Year In Pictures is the slideshow at a wake? Dead people. Wreckage. Rubble. Cleanup. We mourn the passengers that got kicked off the train, even the ones we didn't like, because in the end they're all we've got. We bid a relieved farewell to the train itself and hop on the next one. Same line, different number. Maybe the new train will be a bit nicer - cushioned seats? Air conditioning? All well and good, but the passengers make the ride.
Eh. I'm getting lost in my own metaphor. Me, I'm pretty much over 2010. I was looking for a picture that best summed up 2010, and how I feel about 2010's passing. I think I found one. It's after The Jump. Happy New Year, and I'll see you on the other side.
'Twas Saturday night, 7:00ish. Beth had spent the day with The Girls tearassing around Temecula and drinking wine; it was straight to bed for her (and it was bedtime for Lucas), thus I was freed up to watch TV and enoy a shaker full of pomegranate martinis. Not necessarily in that order. Flipping through the channels, finding nothing, then into the Encore block and...oh yeah. The Greatest Movie Ever Made. Two hours of mindless fun, and then Saturday Night Live! With the Piv! MACGRUBER! O sweet mystery of life at last I've fouuuuund youuuuuuuuu!
Anyway, I had the chance to bring up the Greatest Movie Ever Made this evening at dinner. We were discussing My Chemical Romance, and the "Black Parade" song, which I compared (not unfavorably) to every song ever done by Queen. "You know what the Black Parade song needs," I said. "A big gong at the end of it. BWWWWWWONGGGGGG."
"Eh," Beth said. "Bohemian Rhapsody. Such a stupid song."
"Yes!", I cried. "It is. But! You love it. It's so ridiculous, and yet! You have to listen to it." I paused. "If 'Bohemian Rhapsody' were a movie, it would be The Greatest Movie Ever Made...you know the one. I watched it the other night, when you were sleeping. ARMAGEDDON. That movie is so ghastly, so unbelievably silly, and yet I must watch it whenever it's on. You know something? If we ever do the remarriage ceremony thing, we're going to walk down the aisle to our wedding song - "Don't Want To Miss A Thing" by Aerosmith" (here Beth reminds me that no, that wasn't our wedding song, but in my mind it was and ever shall be, as it was A.J. and Gracie's) "and at the end of the aisle, right there on the alter, there will be a big easel holding a big picture of Bruce Willis in his spacesuit, reminding us of his sacrifice."