Why Can’t Johnny Read?

I met a friend for lunch today in Brentwood.   What is it about Brentwood that brings out the genocidal maniac me?  I’m hip to Williamson County being where good Republicans go to die provided their credit checks out.  That isn’t the issue.
There’s just something about these damn Stepford wives tooling around in SUVs while chatting with their Stepford wives pals on the cell phone that makes me want to shoot someone in the face.  One crazy bitch, late for tennis lessons or something, cut across three lanes of traffic on Franklin Rd. right in front of me.  She didn’t have to interrupt her conversation about how hard it will be for Brantley to get into a good pre-school to do it.  I know this because she came close enough to hitting me that I heard the entire conversation.

After lunch, I hit the Borders bookstore.  I currently have nothing on my reading list.  The last book I finished gave me the heebie-jeebies, so I need something to get my mind off of it.

The offending book was The Stolen Child.  I recommend it unless you are the kind of parent that freaks out if your child is not within your sight at all times.  After you read this book, you won’t be able to see a missing boy scout in the woods or an Amber Alert without thinking that the kid was snatched by hobgoblins and replaced by a changeling.

I perused the aisles for at least an hour.  My first choice was Christopher Hitchen’s latest.   It would be a safer idea to bring home a sack full of Nazi porn.   The Mrs. doesn’t take kindly to god-bashing around the house.  I value my life more than my beliefs.

After an exhaustive search, I couldn’t find a copy of Ilsa: She-Wolf of the SS, so I went home empty-handed.