Attention: humor & sarcasm ahead!
Today, the Metatag Hag and I are back over to you, dear reader, with a reminiscence on our youth and some of the books that made the Hag become, well, a hag, and helped yours truly now help you... not only network with influencers, but become an influencer yourself.
Metatag Hag: Yet today is a non-working day, which is perfect for some background development. Last year, I wrote this little text. Today, I am a) recycling and amending it; b) using it as a template to set some homework for you.
Yeah, life sucks, but it's not my fault. Have a drink and get to writing!
Compare five of your favorite books to five of your favorite drinks.
The Moor’s Last Sigh by Sir Salman Rushdie is like very old fine cognac. You have to take it in small and carefully savored doses in order to appreciate it fully.
If you try to devour the entire book in one evening, it’s the same as drowning a bottle of old Martell in a gulp. Waste of really cool product, and a most banal type of hangover to add insult to the injury.
Harry Potter by J.K. Rowling is like that bubbly toxic sugary lemonade spiked with vodkaby some evil genius.
It is impossible to fathom why a sane adult - or sane kid, for that matter - would willingly want to drink that stuff (spiked or not), but let’s presume that you do.
Before long, you will start seeing Gandalf-like bearded characters sending sparks out of twigs, bespectacled demure Neo-like kids who wonder why it had to be bloody them, all the way to the climax, and an array of colorful fantastic beasts and where to find them.
Moreover, you will probably feel like a fantastic beast. Or seriously think you actually are one. After that, vodka-spiked lemonade will become a permanent resident of your fridge - or bookshelf, for that matter.
The Three Musketeers by Alexandre Dumas-père is like beer. You can take as much as you want or can possibly hold in one séance - with occasional visits to the bathroom.
Yet you always come back for more, and there are literally no after-effects but a slightly sore head and the regret for your system being unable to work faster. Or you’d be able to consume much more in one go and get even merrier.
Twilight by Stephenie Meyer is like Bloody Bella. Please rein in your WTF waterfalls. I will explain.
It’s a cocktail like Bloody Mary, it's just that instead of vodka and tomato juice it contains:
- Emo kids’ tears collected in new moon after a bad breakup;
- Tomato juice is replaced by guess what;
... and you can keep the Worcestershire sauce if you’re old, sad, and traditional.
If you’re a genuine connoisseur, you will add a sprinkle of finely chopped werewolf hair. The really cool extreme savvies use whole werewolf hair. A little touch of vampire spit will add edge to it.
The results are unpredictable.
- You are likely to join the Robsten cult and have their kissing pictures tattooed all over your body. This is actually not a joke, my friend can bring body of evidence - literally - to the case.
- You will maybe wear plastic fangs to work in the futile attempt to seduce your shy attractive colleague.
- You can also develop fake lycanthropy and get to wear your grandmother’s moth-eaten sable furs on a 24/7/365 basis.
- Three-plus Bloody Bellas can eventually make you join a pack of stray dogs.
But the adult reasonable person inside you will understand the allusion to the ketchupped vodka instead: in the morning, you will think: OK, it was good yesterday at the party, but why did I have to drink at all?
Waiting for the Barbarians by J.M. Coetzee is like absinthe.
You take a shot, you go like “Whoa! Who am I and where am I?”, then dive into a hallucination worthy of Timothy Leary.
Next morning, you wish you were never born, because your head feels like a large hadron collider.
And you wish you never had a brain as you are lost in philosophical flashbacks so deep and intricate that it will be a long time before you get back to where you put the book (or the glass) down.
To be continued...
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