Sketchiness In The Time Of Cholera

I just finished Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s renowned roman Love in the Time of Cholera. The book was not the most hellacious read ever (that honor still belongs to Hobbes’ Leviathan), and, in truth, to a certain degree, I did like it. Unlike the rest of America, I chose to read Marquez’s novel not because it was a selection for Oprah’s book club, but, rather, because I don’t particularly care for his politics and wanted a little more ammunition for an anti-Marquez/Castro rant. Unfortunately, the political undertones in the book were minimal (I do look forward to reading his semi-fictional account of Chavez’s hero Simon Bolivar, a novel that seemingly has to condone some of the Latin American revolutionary’s more absurd principles) and it was very well-written, providing me with none of the goods I was hoping to acquire. I actually enjoyed some of the bitter personification that emanated from his figurative language pertaining to the animal kingdom, such as: “(she) began to provoke his defenseless body with mock caresses, like a kitten delighting in cruelty,” and “he said that dogs were not loyal but servile, that cats were opportunists and traitors, that peacocks were heralds of death, that macaws were simply decorative annoyances, that rabbits fomented greed, that monkeys carried the fever of lust, and that roosters were damned because they had been complicit in the three denials of Christ.” Exactly. My biggest qualm with the book was the protagonist, who I found utterly pathetic. This man, Florentino Ariza, fell in love with a girl, Fermina Daza, as a teenager, she denied him and ended up marrying an affluent doctor. Senor Ariza, as opposed to, I don’t know, moving on, decided he would wait for Daza’s husband to die. Fifty years later, the husband finally dies, and the opportunistic Ariza finally has his second chance. Gabo sets the scene up to be this seminal moment but to me, that’s not romantic; that’s kinda creepy. In sum, it wasn’t awful, but I definitely don’t think he deserved the Nobel Prize. But, hey, it seems like they’re giving those to pretty much anyone these days…..Al Gore!

Hufflepuff: A Fate Worse Than Death

My favorite fringe character from the first film, other than John Cleese’s “Nearly Headless Nick,” is the “Sorting Hat.” Think of Dick Cheney, but if he became a hat. The Sorting Hat’s principal role is to determine which students belong to which house (dorm). If I were a character in Harry Potter, three of the four would do the trick. Slytherin: because, as a polyglot, the idea of learning Parseltongue is freaking awesome; Gryffindor: because I’d be bff with Harry, I’d get obliterated with Seamus, and the elder Weasley twins and I would be the oligarchs of Mischiefia; and Ravenclaw: because, though a misnomer (ravens don’t have claws), it’s the most badass name and its apparently the hot Asian house, so, naturally I’d gravitate towards it. But if the Sorting Hat DARED to place me in the fruitiest house name bar none, Hufflepuff, (it’s even worse in French: soufflepouffle), I’d rather fucking kill myself. No, really, I’d throw the hat off my head, stamp on it, then, turn my wand on myself, and Aveda Kadevra myself into oblivion. Imagine, if you were placed into this house, for the next seven years, you would be defined by something called “Hufflepuff.” Whenever you’re introduced to anyone in the magical world, Hufflepuff would invariably come up, followed by immediate snickering, and insinuations that you, good sir, are a coward and a puh-puh-pussy. That, my friends, is a fate worse than death.

Harry Potter: How The Epilogue Ruined One of the Greatest Series of Our Time

SPOILER ALERT: If you haven’t read the last book in the Harry Potter series, stop reading this shitty brog and get to it. My biggest qualm with the book was the epilogue. The day I finished the book I received a text from my brother that echoed my sentiments (and went something like this): “I loved it (the final installment), until the epilogue. The epilogue fucking ruined it.” How could a mere page and a half ruin 800 pages (it might have been more or less, I honestly don’t remember) of pure masterpiece? Simple: we find out that Harry Potter settled for a ginger. Harry Potter could literally have any girl in the magical world. He fucking defeated Lord Voldemort. It doesn’t get any sexier than that. Oh, wait, it does. Not only is he the absolute definition of a hero, he was undoubtedly a world class athlete. Given his meteoric rise at the position of seeker in the early part of the series, and with the elimination of the previously omnipresent malevolence providing him with the free time to return to his true passion, Quidditch, Harry would have surely represented the English national side in the magical world’s most popular sport. A sporting icon and the world’s savior and he settled for a fucking ginger?! We find out in the seventh book that Harry easily could have scored (again) with the utterly adorable Cho Chang (undeniably the hottest Glaswegian since Shirley Manson of Garbage. By the way, aren’t English demonyms awesome?!). Luna Lovegood was hot in that aloof, there’s-a- thirty- percent-chance-she’ll-stab-me-in-my-sleep kinda way. One of the two Indian twins was really, really, ridiculously good looking. And, of course, the ultimate no-brainer: Hermione Granger! Since the first movie, male adults have been attempting to justify crushes on this pre-pubescent, nebbish Muggle-born sorceress. Finally, after roughly movie number four, our secret obsession no longer seemed so perverse, and we could openly admit an attraction to her gentle, Anglican features and little miss sassypants attitude. As a mate (for Harry, of course), she’d be categorically infuriating and, yet, simultaneously, completely fascinating: which would translate to incredible hate sex AND completely satisfying make up sex for one Harry Potter. But noooo, Harry decided to ride the Ginger Express all the way to the Pearly Gates (actually, I imagine that most in the magical world would scorn religion, but you get my point). Even if she wasn’t a ginger, this is a terrible idea. First of all, this was the dumb, gullible bitch that opened the Chamber of fucking Secrets which almost resulted in Hogwarts being closed permanently. What an r-tard! Secondly, dating your best friend’s sister almost inevitably ends in complication (duh). The friendship and marriage stages of the relationship are fine, but the “it’s clear we’re having sex and I tell all of our other mutual friends every disturbing detail about what a nympho your sister is, but the two of us are going to continue to ignore the elephant in the room. Capisci?” phase of the relationship would be disastrous. Between best friends, nothing should be secret. (My friends know this all too well, as when I’m inebriated, I tend to speak with the utmost candor). With Ron and Harry, all of the sudden, a huge part of Harry’s life is off-limits. Classic guy conversations revolving around reasons why my wife/girlfriend is a rhymes-with-runt are now a major no-no. Not to mention, that hilarious story about you farting while your wife is giving you head might as well have never happened. All of this is why the epilogue ruined the book; we find out that, in a matter of paragraphs, Harry’s life is eternally devoid of true happiness.

Why Do I Have To Have A Title For Every Entry? No, I’m Boycotting Your Arbitrary Rules And Filling This Box With Nonsense!

So, I started to read Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment (oooh, look at me, my name’s SOS, I’m so smart, blah blah blah, I read Dostoevsky, brah brah brah!) expecting to hate everything about it, but from the second page I was hooked. Why, you inquire? Does this sound familiar to anyone? “He had become so completely absorbed in himself and isolated from everyone else that he dreaded meeting not only his landlady, but anyone at all.” Talk about being able to relate to the protagonist! One point for team misanthrope!