A Fatwa For the Wrong Reason

Readers, I read approximately 262,000 words to complete The Satanic Verses by Salman Rushdie. Two hundred and sixty-two thousand words. Dear reader, I assure you I understood almost all of them (fine, maybe not all, but close enough). Yet when combined, those words meant absolutely nothing. This book was rubbish. Trash. Slop.

Now, you might ask, “Did he take some time to Google what it meant?” No. And fuck you for even thinking I would. I already gave this book more of my life than it deserved. Expecting me to waste another minute reading Reddit threads filled with literary snobs explaining how this is a “masterpiece” would be cruel and unusual punishment. If I wanted to hear nonsense disguised as wisdom, I’d just go to an AA meeting or maybe go see Deepak Chopra speak.

The internet could tell me what The Satanic Verses is “really” about, but honestly, I think ignorance is healthier. Knowing would only confirm that everyone else is lying.

Some people think Rushdie got a fatwa because of how he portrayed Muhammad. Personally, I think it was about the quality of the writing.* Maybe his would-be assassin made it to page 250, realized there were still 300 left, and just snapped.

To be clear, I don’t wish death on the man. (I’m not above wishing death on people, trust me, there’s an Orange fellow who crosses my mind now and then.) But Rushdie? He’s second-tier. Somewhere between a mild concussion and a solid punch to the ribs. That feels fair.

There were moments, tiny little glimmers, where the book almost worked. One or two sentences I didn’t immediately hate. But between those brief oases of competence was a desert of boredom, confusion, and something that resembled insanity. Reading this felt like watching a drunk man recite philosophy while falling down a flight of stairs.

If you asked me to describe it, I’d say it’s like what would come out of a fat man’s bunghole after eating Chipotle, McDonald’s, and chili in one sitting. It ain’t pretty.

The Fallout

It’s 9:40 p.m. on October 31st. The deadline is looming. Two hours and twenty minutes to go.

My sister-in-law swears she’ll finish (I believe her). My brother-in-law shocked us all with a first-place, humble finish days ago. The rest? Quitters. Absolute failures. And honestly, I envy them.

While I was clawing my way through this literary torture chamber, they were probably enjoying dinner, getting some extra sleep, or watching porn. All better life choices than reading this filth. Whatever they did with their time, it was more valuable than mine.

Eight out of eleven of us will be taking shots real soon, and no one is to blame but the lunatic who picked this book. My official vote is that she takes eight shots herself as an act of public contrition.

Why Finish It?

Someone might ask, “If it was that bad, why finish it?” Simple. To prove a point. To gloat. To look my dear wife in the eyes, the same wife who quit at page twenty, and say, “I did it.” That’s it. That’s the whole reason.

So to all the quitters: I laugh at your weakness. May your shots burn.

Final Confession

I’ll admit something. I have no idea what libidinous means. Didn’t then, don’t now. And no, I didn’t look it up. Instead, I made a blog note that simply read:

“I’ll be the first to admit I don’t know what the fuck libidinous means.”

And that, dear readers, is the kind of scholarship that carried me through 262,000 words of hell.

Fuck you, sister-in-law. You now officially take the crown from our dear Auntie for worst book recommendation to ever come out of this family.

* To my dear friend who gave me this idea, cheers to you, always knew you had a dark streak ;)