Some Dude Does a Thing
The Reader’s editors have a deep and abiding passion for unending stories about uninteresting people doing unimportant things. It’s not hard to see why. However unrewarding these stories are from a reader’s point of view, they do effectively fill the vast spaces between ads in section one. Most are so unremarkable that we here at The Reader Sucks do not remark upon them. Also, that way we don’t have to read them. But once in a while a Reader story is so gloriously pointless and dull I have to sit down for a few minutes to savor its sublime superfluousness. Such is the case with an Our Town story this week about … some dude named Danny Postel, who’s bought a lot of books from a lefty book store and who’s convinced some writers with vaguely lefty sympathies to stop by said bookstore. That’s basically THE ENTIRE STORY, though writer Megan Marz drags it out to 900 words or so.
Though the story was already almost perfect as it was, the Reader’s editors decided to put a little dingleberry on top of the crap sundae in the form of one of their award-winning PULL QUOTES OF INTENSE SLEEPINESS:
"When poet Andre Codrescu visited Postel recently, POSTEL BROUGHT HIM TO LEFT OF CENTER after lunch."
L’[#kdk/sfuv.s;Kjhb;ekhOq]ue-r
Terribly sorry; I dozed off for a moment on the keyboard.
POP QUIZ: The quote below is taken from this week's Reader. Anyone able to tell me where exactly it can be found will win a BIG PRIZE. Post your answers in the "comments" section below.
"I’ll sit at home and watch it on TV."
posted by spacecog at 7:26 PM
5 Comments:
No guesses? Here's a hint: it's in section one, and it's a sentence that's extremely unlikely to be read by most Reader readers. Ok, that's two hints, but there you are.
This article can be found:
in the wood pile, waiting to be used as a firelighter in the winter
It's the last line in the fake-firefighter story.
That is correct! Andrew also gets a half-point for his answer.
The prize? A free subscription to as many issues of the Reader as you can carry, delivered to you (and everyone else in Chicago) each week in giant piles all over this great city. That's not much of a prize, I'll admit -- it's more like a curse -- but, hey, you don't have to read them; you can make a little fort out of them if you want.
So they just die of no air?
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