After wrestling with David Foster Wallace’s Infinite Jest for over a fucking year, I finally get it. I get the joke. Nobody will ever really understand what this ghat damn book is about, but we’ll keep talking about it as though it is some great masterpiece just because there are hundreds of characters, and story lines you forgot about 150 pages ago, jump up and yell, “Boo, I gotcha!” out of nowhere.

This books makes no fucking sense.


The joke’s on us.

Well played sir. Well. Fucking. Played.

Ditto.  This is the kind of bullshit book the wine and cheese sippers hem and haw over while they chow down on their glorified Chun King dinners at P.F. Chang’s.


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