SUCK IT, KEN FOLLETT

I consider myself very close to my godmother. She's also my aunt, which helps, but mostly because she's awesome. She sends the funniest birthday cards and always has plenty of wine ready for visits and knows how to throw a damn good party. She's also been a life-long advocate for my voracious appetite for books. For as long as I can remember, I've been receiving a steady stream of books from her for holidays and birthdays. I never know what I'm going to get, but it's always good. So a few years ago when I got Ken Follett's "Pillars of the Earth" and "World Without End" for Christmas, I was excited. These books were massively huge, and because they were coming from my aunt, they were just about guaranteed to be great reads. Everyone in the room ooed and ahhed and commented about how these were some of their own favorite books. These were worldwide classics. These would be good. And this is the story about how I was dead wrong.

A few days later I cracked open "Pillars of the Earth." My fingers tingled with new book anticipation. The story started out lukewarm for me. But as the pages wore on, my spirits began to falter. By the time I was half way through, I hated it. HATED. IT. THIS was a worldwide classic? THIS was everyone's favorite book? THIS?

The real problem here though, is once I start reading a book, I can't stop. Kind of like how B and I can't turn away from Cougar Town. I have to go through with it and finish it. Right until the bitter end. I have never abandoned a book. I'm like the Marines Corps of books. Never leave a man book behind. It's a sick compulsion. And even worse, "Pillars of the Earth" is just about a babillion pages long. That bitch is longer than the Bible.

And it's just about as engaging as watching my dog lick his own ass. Every night before bed I would pick up that book before bed and power through. And every night I would fall asleep mid-sentence. The next night I'd pick up where I left off on the page and have no idea what was going on because I'd zoned out three pages before the previous night. How was I ever going to finish this goddamned book if I had to re-read the same five pages every single night just to figure out what in the hell was going on?!

Worst of all? Ken Follett is a shitty writer. Now, I'm a not saying that because I'm not a shitty writer, but I don't make any money. There is no vacation home and sports car waiting for me to claim them every time I fart out a post here. I do it because I love talking about myself you. You're welcome. Therefore I'm allowed to be shitty. Ken Follett is not. I'm pretty sure there were girls in my tenth grade English Lit class with Mrs. Roby who could write a more graceful sentence then this baboon. How about some poetry in those words, Kenneth?! You're a professional author. IMPRESS ME WITH YOUR WORDS.

When I finally finished "Pillars of the Earth" I slammed the book down triumphantly and let out a woop. I was free from Ken Follett's 16-fucking-page description of a godammned bear fight! I didn't have to read about peasant sex any more! To cleanse myself, I gobbled up any and every book set in the present day I could get my hands on. No more pock-faced knights and nasty earls for me! No more.

Time went by and the second book, "World Without End" sat collecting dust on my bookshelf. I was NOT going to put myself through that again. I'd rather french kiss my dog every night than have to go to bed with Ken Follett for another six months. When my mom was visiting and looking for something to read, I pushed "World Without End" into her hands.

"Have you read this yet?" she asked.

"No, but you can take it."

"Well, I don't want to take it if you haven't read it yet. I'll wait until you read it."

"NO. Just take it. That'll take years."

"Do you think I'll like it?"

"No. Yes. Probably not. You should just take it."

So she did. Months went by and I never heard about it. Then while down the shore this summer, I read all the books I brought faster than I had anticipated. I had a full four days left of beach reading with nothing to read. So I scoured the beach house for something to hold me over for the next few days. But I'd read everything in sight. And then my mom pulled it out.

"You said you never read this one, right?"

And then there I was, sitting on the goddamned beach with goddamned Ken Follett and goddamned "World Without End." GODDAMNIT.

That was three months ago. It's now the end of October and I am STILL reading that book. Every night before I go to bed I get to spend some time with good ol' Ken the fucking asshole Follett. And this book? Is even worse than the first. The writing is still shitty, the story goes on forever, and to top it all off, I'm officially convinced that Ken Follett is a he-man woman hater.

Hear me out. This is about to get heavy, but Ken Follett loves raping all of his women characters. It happened a couple times in "Pillars" but I don't think there's been a woman in "World Without End" who hasn't either been raped or have been in danger of being raped at least once. BUT WAIT, I'm not even done. Ready for this? In this book, the women like it. THAT'S RIGHT, ERRBODY. They're always "ashamed" when the tinglies start a'coming mid-rape. [Ed note: I'm rull, RULL sorry for that last sentence. I feel like I need to go wash my eyeballs now.] That's just fucked up. I mean, really. I can't believe I even have to write about this, but that's what happens when you decide to write a blog post before the sun even rises on a Monday morning. You end up talking about the peasants gettin' the tinglies. Egh. Also? Lesbian nuns. Because, really? REALLY? That's all I'm gonna say about that.

To be honest, I don't think I would have disliked these novels nearly as much if half the world hadn't told me that they were their favorite books before I started. These? Really? But every night I slog on. Every night I heft up that Bible-length book and rest it on my chest because it's too much of an bicep workout to hold. And I realized recently that again, just like Cougar Town, I love to hate it. Every night I flip open the book and proclaim, "welp only 893 pages to go. Almost done." Whenever B asks me what part I'm at, I tell him "the part right after that girl got raped and now that guy is building things and everyone is dying of the plague," and no matter what page I'm on, it's a pretty accurate description. Do you know how many pages there are in "World Without End?" 1024. In 1024 pages, girls get raped, the man builds things and everyone dies of the plague. THE END.

SUCK IT, KEN FOLLETT.

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