A few weeks ago, on one particularly bad day of work, one of my coworkers approached my cubicle and said, “Hey, you covered Monster Truck Madness, right?”
My traditional dopey grin dissolved into a sneer as I remembered the pain—the sheer torture—of reading Monster Truck Madness. I looked up and growled, “Yeah, I did.”
“How was it?” this coworker asked, taking a bite into a green apple.
“It’s about the worst fucking thing I’ve ever read,” I responded, without hyperbole, even bearing mind that I had on several occasions read material concocted by the great Owen.
“Okay,” my coworker responded, drawing out each syllable to express either confusion or disdain, “but will it make money?”