here it is. i worked from 6 am - 4 pm on sunday, and did nothing but sleep, read and talk.
over the course of these 10 hours i realized just how much i hate dick francis (and jane austen)
dick francis, for those of you who dont read over-pretentious drivel is a booty bumper who writes about horses, horse racing, murder/conspiracy/extortio
basically, his inspiration for writing stems from when he was a young lad in england and he had a pony who he stroked it for daily. one day his pony just sick and tired of his prissy ass and left to find an owner who wasn’t a total clown.
he’s been bitter and angry ever since, blaming everyone from his parents to her majesty the royal nuts, to buckinham palace and the old broad down the country lane.
all his stories suck, but i was really really bored.
anyways, one story went on for 30 pages about jealousy and deception and a hired killer. the killer was to murder a new jockey who replaced the former one, and out of nowhere the killer is on a boat and it sinks.
so i left out some details, but you can see just how shitty this story is. in fact, if i had written it, the jockey would really have been hulk hogan, and the pony would have been the tiger from he-man. none of this sissy horse jumping and tea and crumpets garbage.
ps. jane austen sucks even more. her long winded contrived tales consist of a man and woman who fall in love, but then one of them loves someone else, and theres heartbreak.
yeah, boo hoo. too bad that along the way, she adds in 70 characters who don’t affect the story at all. this is to confuse the reader, or as i see it, a way of telling us how over-rated she is, and to put it down.
93% of women disagree with me, which is why we’ve had to endure the trainwreck called Pride and prejudice being turned into a movie. are you fucking serious?
who actually watches this?the thought process is most likely to be, “wow, my life is now complete after having sat thru 3 hours of the worst cinematic display in history. i guess i’ll go home and play with my cats, since no one of the opposite sex would ever look at me let alone penetrate me or love me in a way even remotely close to how jane austen would describe it for 47 pages in one of her novels. why can’t i have sir james walter billy cunningham sr. jr. the III approach my door with a horse as pure and gentle as dove soap, as gentle and soothing as baby powder, with a masculinity as rugged and fierce as a pack of marlboro’s.
holy shit, im sweating right now im so infuriated with this.
tune in next week, where we discuss danielle steele, and erotic novels.