January 24, 2006
A Million Little Lies
It appears as if these here United States of America have been all abuzz about A Million Little Pieces by James Frey. Said tome was a selection for the book club of that consummate highbrow, Oprah Winfrey, and, as such, sold like hotcakes.
As pretty much all of America knows, however, many portions of Mr. Frey’s supposed memoir have been deemed a bit factually challenged. Whereas Mr. Frey claims to have spent months doing hard time in prison, it seems as if he was actually doing hard time as a male stripper. Or some such: We’re not entirely sure we got the facts straight. Perhaps he was a rodeo clown?
Anyway, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are not big Oprah fans, and thus we seldom read her book club selections. We tend to favor the finer things—like stock car racing and intercourse with first cousins. As such, we must admit that we haven’t even taken a gander at Mr. Frey’s book. Still, we are fully prepared to believe that it’s a beautiful, moving story of a man’s triumph over a completely made up drug addiction.
Still, dear reader, this doesn’t appear to be enough for the American public, which is buying Mr. Frey’s work in such massive amounts that we may have to revise our theory that all Americans are illiterate. The more this guy lies, it seems, the more people head to their local chain bookstore and lay down their hard-earned money for his book.
Naturally, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are always in the mood to make a buck or two. Except, dear reader, when we—in proper soft rock form—feel like makin’ love. But that seldom happens these days.
Accordingly, we came up with a brilliant idea: Why not write a completely dubious memoir chock-a-block with fibs? We’ll tell such tall tales that you’d think James Frey were George Washington. Provided our lies were sufficiently ridiculous, our “memoir” will make all kinds of cash. We’ll be greener than Kermit the Frog on a dingy with Anna Nicole Smith, Roseanne Barr, and a seesaw. (Man, that was a long way to go for a gag.)
It is in this spirit, dear reader, that one of our senior editors here at “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly”—let’s just call him “Chip”—composed the following few paragraphs. We figured that it would set the tone for his salaciously fabricated work, and thus garner the attention of all kinds of literary agents. Fame, fortune, and infamy, here we come!
Without further ado then, we proudly present:
The Winter of Our Incontinence a Memoir by “Chip”
Chapter the Fourth: “I Can’t Believe That’s Oregano!”
…Reagan was always doing that sort of thing. “End the Cold War for me,” he whimpered. Clearly, he was going to need my help.
“Show a little backbone, will you?” I responded. But it never seemed to get through to him. A few days later, I told Gorbachev once and for all: “Tear down this wall.” And the rest, as Dexy’s Midnight Runner’s agent says, is history.
This kind of confidence naturally made me a big hit with the ladies. Of course it didn’t hurt that I’m hotter than a Rolex in Winona Ryder’s pocket. As I got off the ‘phone with the Gipper, one of my sundry supermodel girlfriends said “Gee, ‘Chip,’ you’re hotter than a Rolex in Winona Ryder’s pocket.”
“Ah, shut up and make me a chicken salad sandwich,” I retorted. She did, but only after making remarks about my impressive calf muscles.
It was then that it finally hit me: Maybe it had been a mistake to sleep with Angelina Jolie….
