"Chunky," and other gravy matters

Okay, so that Chicago Author’s Roundtable is this coming Monday night–not, as I’d totally foggily reported last week, this past Monday. (I guess that’s obvious, since time moves forward and not backward.) I hope you’ll come to the lovely air-conditioned comfort of the Sulzer Regional Library to hear Zulkey and Erin and Kevin Guilfoile and me, along with Kevin Smokler, who is touring this summer as the editor of a very cool book, and who is a great person to commiserate with about the bugfucking crazy business of having to push your own book as much as possible within about six weeks and on about four hours of sleep per night. We’ll be talking about stuff like what it means to have both online audiences and books to promote, whether having an internet presence can help a writing career, and, most importantly, discuss the mystifying differences between a blog and a chatroom (kidding).

So please come. It’ll be fun. I have no idea whether the table will actually be round. That could be awkward.

I feel I ought to provide some updates regarding the dicksmackery observed in Wednesday night’s post.

It seems Bill Zwecker was pretty much spanked by his co-anchors on the Channel 2 morning news the day after his blog post (video here), and they read some viewer/reader email, including one my friend Brenda wrote. Richard Roeper continues to totally leave his karmic toilet seat up by posting a brief response at the end of his Thursday column, in which he’s under the impression that we ladies a.) need him to tell us that the Dove women are indeed “normal-sized,” b.) are persecuting him for his “preference for fantasy-thin women in their underwear” and c.) have no sense of humor whatsoever.

To which I’ll respond:

a.) Look: if you think the Dove women are chunky, you think they’re chunky. God knows how your eyes work, but we trust our own, and we also trust our knowledge of Standard English enough to understand that “chunky” isn’t what you say when you mean to convey “normal-sized” with humorous intent. It’s just what you say when you’re a dickclown.

b.) We never asked for you to apologize for your preference for fantasy-thin women in their underwear. You don’t have to apologize for your preference for fantasy-thin women in their underwear any more than you should apologize for preferences for fantasy-fat women wrapped in Cling Wrap, say, or fantasy-freakshow women with six to eight impossibly perky double-D-cup dirtypillows, or whatever the hell happens to rock your little Richard, Roeper. We never asked you what your fantasies were to begin with, and in fact we wouldn’t give a shit about your fantasies if you hadn’t published a petulant half-assed half-column about how icky the Dove women are for not fulfilling them.

c.) Um, we’re so funny we have the motherfucking power to make your columns funnier retroactively. Did you like how your July 19th column got funnier after July 19th? Notice how all those lines that weren’t jokes on July 19th are totally jokes now? Isn’t it cool how you’re funny, but only when you write crazy nutty time-release jokes that we don’t get? Ha ha!

Have a good weekend. I’m going to see Gravy Train!!!! tonight, because they are my fantasy women. (And that includes the two guys.)

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