"On January 25, we'll be publishing a secret novel simply titled O, about President Obama's campaign for re-election in 2012. The author of the novel wishes to remain anonymous. You may be asked to comment on whether or not you are the author. If so, it would be great if you refrained from commenting, in solidarity with the principle that a book should be judged on its content and not on the perceived ideology of its author.
The author, an individual with integrity and talent, is someone who has been in the room with Barack Obama and knows the political world intimately. In fact, you may know this person, or know of this person -- if you are not in fact the author yourself.
Thanks in advance for your consideration. I apologize for the impersonality of this blind group email, but this seems like the best way to protect the author's identity. I hope you enjoy the book. It's terrific.
For a sneak preview of O and a special video address from the President of the United States, go to www.othebook.com
Publisher, Simon & Schuster"
Gosh, I so wanted to keep it a secret for just a little while longer, but I just couldn't help myself, you know? It's like, when you get a really good present for somebody, but their birthday isn't, like, for another four months, and you are just going to die outta piss if you don't give it to the person early? You know what I mean? Like, okay-- on Monday, my wife was in a thrift shop and saw this super-fun, vintagey, 1960s-era mod-like lamp with a base made entirely out of cork, and she told me all about it. So, what did I do on Tuesday? I bought the fucking thing and, because it's cork and all, I thumb-tacked a love note to it so she'd find it when she got home from work.
And it isn't even her BIRTHDAY! It's in OCTOBER! So, like, that's kind of what I felt like after writing "O." Like, I just couldn't stand it anymore. I HAD to tell someone! So, I chose you. Because you're my blogdience, and I think you're hot and attentive and everything.
I thought you should know the truth. From me.
I always knew I wanted to write a book called "O," ever since I was old enough to realize that "O" was my third favorite letter, after "Q" and "9." I didn't know what the hell the book was going to be about-- but I had my title. Some writers choose the title last-- not me. I start with the title, because I'm a man-- like Hemmingway and Ann Coulter. I mean-- look at the title for this blog post:
"Okay, Fine-- You Got Me: I Wrote "O."" Like, does it get any cleverer than that? I'm clever. I deserve that big advance Simon & Schuster gave me. A lifetime paid membership to http://www.indianchicksssxxx.com/ doesn't come cheap.
So, I had my title. "O." Clever, right? And I was all like, "Okay, well, what should the book be about?" And I was thinking I could write a book about Oprah, but I knew right away that this would be way too annoying. Because I'd probably have to talk to her-- and I would never want to do that. Besides, it didn't go so well for Piers Morgan.
What is with that name anyway? Seriously.
Then I was thinking that I could write a book about orgasms. But I was conflicted. While I had a lot to say about orgasms-- and while I knew that the 10 pages of photographs in the middle of the book would be devoted to black-and-white depictions of people making funny "O Faces," and, as a joke, two random pages in the book would be "stuck" together, I just knew that reading, and for that matter writing a book about orgasms could never compare to just having one. And so back to http://www.indianchicksssxxx.com/ I went.
My step-nephew (stephew?) is really into dinosaurs, and, even though he just turned six, I know that, one day, he'll really appreciate a book about Oviraptors. You know, those charming Mongolian theropods. But then I was like, I'm not even related to this kid. So why bother?
Ophiuchus is a pretty bangin' constellation, as constellations go. It's often depicted as a guy with an impossibly small penis grabbing onto a snake, presumably because the snake was making fun of the guy's mini-whang. See below:
I just wasn't sure that lots of people would read the book-- outside of astronomers with micropenis, that is-- and I knew I needed a subject with greater curb appeal-- like a cheerleading team hosting a car wash in the middle of August or a clean needle program run by some scruffy ex-celebrity.
And then it hit me: O.... bama.
BAM. There's the book. There's my money.
I like money.
A final note: Simon & Schuster wants you to judge this book "on its content, not on the perceived ideology of its author." You should totally be doing that with every book, article, blog, website, journal, and post you read.
Because that makes sense. Right?
Because you can rightfully be expected to separate an author from his/her prose. Right?
One day, when books and articles are written by robots or iJournalists, we won't have to worry about pesky, troublesome things like integrity, or lack thereof, impartiality, bias, opinion, or trustworthiness. Until that time of motorized, computerized authorship arrives, just, you know, pretend.