What’s this now?
Handsome bastard alert.
Please don’t be weird.
Look at ’em! Specimens, these two. Looks like the intro to a high-quality pornograph.
Is a lady getting thrown in there? Are they doing stuff on each other? The opening shot of a dirty movie is so important. Remember The Cockfather? The guy’s sitting there in the dramatic lighting and he goes “I blow loads on America” and–
I need you to shut up.
–BADABOOM Michael gets it all over his nice ivy league suit.
Are you done?
I need a cigarette.
Is there a reason you’ve posted this picture?
Of course. To remind the Enthusiasts that Christmas is approaching and there may be no better present than a book. Books don’t need batteries, or spy on you for the NSA, and they weren’t put together by Chinese slave labor. Books don’t lock women in their office and masturbate at them. Books don’t retweet racist jokes on Twitter. (Their authors sometimes do, but don’t blame the book for its writer being a shithead.) A book will never steal twenty dollars from your purse and use it to buy scratch tickets and Dust-Off. Books will not laugh at your genitals, unless you are talking about Dickens’ lost classic You Call That A Dick?
So buy books for Christmas. The Deadhead in your life will love This Is All A Dream We Dreamed: An Oral History Of The Grateful Dead by David Gans and Blair Jackson and the history buff will appreciate Chris Jennings’ Paradise Now: The Story of American Utopianism. Hell, don’t believe me: go ask Sci-Fi Loni Anderson.
“I think David and Chris’ books are out of this world!”
See? Go buy their books.