• Christopher Moore is the best.

    8 mai 2007, 20h35m

    Three weeks ago, in Santa Cruz, California, I was doing a taped interview at the local NPR station, when the interviewer pointed out a paragraph in my new book and asked me to read it for the tape.

    I dont read, I said.
    I know, he said. But if you could just read this.
    I know, but I dont read because I suck at it.
    I know, he said, but I can edit out any mistakes.
    So I read. And twenty false starts later
    Each which I punctuated with, Fuck!
    Twenty takes later,

    He said,
    Wow, you really dont read.
    Thats all Im saying, I said.

    Later he emailed me that he had left in many of the reading mistakes in the show,
    Sort of like a blooper reel.
    Some bonus content for the NPR audience during pledge week.

    After the show ran, hundreds of listeners sent back their tote bags, their coffee mugs, and their The Complete History of Blurry Old Photos by Ken Burns DVD sets,
    asking for their money back.

    I told them. But they didnt believe me.

    When I was in Pennsylvania last week, a bear ate a kid.
    It was sad.
    But kind of funny.
    Not that the bear ate the kid.
    You may have misinterpreted my reading.
    Although that may be, well -- you know why
    But it was funny because they were going to trap the bear
    In a live trap
    Baited with donuts.
    Which I thought was strange.
    Because clearly, the bear had already shown his dietary preference.

    He had not come out of the woods
    To eat a donut.

    Theyre probably going to catch the wrong bear.

    They clearly should have baited the trap
    With a kid.
    Perhaps holding a donut,
    for safe measure.

    Or perhaps they should have asked the bear to read.
    Ha! you say.
    Bears dont read.

    Neither do I, yet here I am.

    (But for future reference,
    If you choose to live trap me.
    A donut will be perfect bait.)
    You can shoot me with one of those tranq guns.
    And when I wake up.
    Ill be chained to a podium.
    And you can poke me with sticks.
    Until I read.

    When they asked the gypsies to read, I read nothing, because I was not a gypsy.
    And when they asked the Jews to read, I read nothing, because I was not a Jew.
    Then they asked the Catholics to read, and I read nothing, because I was not a Catholic.
    And when they asked the cats to read, I read nothing, because I was I not a cat,
    But I listened carefully,
    Because it would have been cool, you know, if it turned out that cats could read.
    Because you could leave post-its on the couch.
    That said, Hey, dont scratch this, you furry little mook!
    I could leave a note in the cat box, Hey, dont kick all the litter out on the floor.
    And then, the cats would leave me a message back.
    But, sadly, cats dont read.
    And neither do I.

    I have a Dream!
    That someday,
    A man will be judged by the content of his composition,
    Not the quality of his elocution.

    Imagine if I were talking to you.
    Instead of reading to you
    Id be looking you in the eye
    Instead of you staring at my bald spot.

    Stop it.

    And when I looked at you,
    Youd see the sincerity in my eyes.
    Because I wouldnt be wearing these glasses
    Which I need for reading.

    I know what youre thinking.
    If not for the hair loss and the glasses
    And the despair
    Hed be a fine piece of man meat
    If it wasnt for his reading.

    Id do him,
    youre thinking.
    If his reading wasnt so weak.

    Youre thinking:

    Boy, that Garrison Keillor can sure read.
    That dulcet baritone rolling sultry out of a Norwegian
    With the shoulders of a freight train
    And the face of a Shinto Demon.
    Id do Garrison Keillor,
    if he were up there now.
    Instead of this fucktard.

    Id be Garrison Keillors Prarie Home Companion
    Good Long Time.
    Youre thinking.
    You tramps.

    When I get home from this book tour, Im going to teach my cats to read.
    I know, theyll keep insisting that they dont read.
    But you know how cats lie.