I Got Freaking Jobbed.
Well, they announced the winner of the Newbery Medal today and, once again, those bastards on the committee screwed me. For the laymen out there, the Newbery is the most prestigious award there is for children’s literature. Some asshole I’ve never heard of won it this year.
Sweet Christ, how many awesome children’s books do I have to write before these elitists will give me a freaking Newbery? My latest children’s book, “The Talking Lion, a Large Piece of Fruit, and the Lesson-Learning Boy,” was by far the greatest work I’ve produced in the past five years. Even better than last year’s “A Witch, a Little Girl, Some Ponies, and a Bag of Magic,” which was pretty goddamn unbelievable if you ask me.
Some of my critics say that I’ll never win the Newbery because my books contain language too coarse and racially insensitive for children. To that, I say, “Fuck you, Indian. Do not tell me how to write!” Whatever. I don’t write children’s books for awards. I do it for the money. And all the trim I get. You have any idea how many hot, lonely moms there are in this country? Well, I’ll tell you. A fucking shitload, that’s how many, you lazy Eskimo. And they line up around the block for my book signings. Then they line up around my balls.(Note to self, remember that line for the next book.)
Ah, I’ve wasted too much of my time complaining already. I’ve got to finish my next children’s book. It’s tentatively called, “The Magical Train, Some Mean Step-Parents, a Bear, Something To Do With the Circus, and a Lesson About Material Possessions.” And if it doesn’t win me the Newbery, I swear to God I’ll find Roald Dahl’s widow and I’ll punch her in the heart.
