Imagine my dismay. I borrow the handsomely packaged McSweeney’s #27 from the Writers’ Room and take it home to my boudoir. Instead of three hours of athletic intercourse with my Dutch supermodel girlfriend, I decide to read this glorious tome. “No, Famke,” I say, “put those luxurious bosoms away. Tonight I am reading the greatest literary quarterly on Earth.” “Go screw your hand!” she fumes, leaving me at once.
So, I snuggle up nice and warm and I read the first four stories which enchant and beguile and irritate me in that way we McSweeney’s readers adore with a passion. And then… I arrive on page 121. And what name do I see before me? Yes… STEPHEN KING.
Stephen ‘I can write five novels in my sleep’ King. Stephen ‘who needs proofreaders when you have nine houses?’ King. Stephen ‘I’ll take £300K for my next novel and toss in a few Persian slave brides while you’re at it’ King. What is this one-man capitalist pig doing bedizening the pages of McS with his SHIT?
And I mean this quite literally, for his story, ‘A Very Tight Place’ (what a title, Stephen! How many Pulitzers would you like for that?) is a scatalogical outpouring of ordure not fit for the lowliest bum-wiper in Henry VIII’s court.
The protagonist (generic homosexual based on what Stephen images the gays must be like) finds himself imprisoned in a portable toilet (ha-ha-ha-ha, oh Stephen, you are SUCH a cheeky muffin!) after a feud with a neighbour (Random Resentful Bastard With No Motive #109).
And so… for the next sixty pages in MCSWEENEY’S (the supposed benchmark of literary excellence and America’s trailblazing short story compendium) I have to read about a cardboard gay tunnelling through shit so he doesn’t have to die of starvation in a portable toilet. How apposite, Stephen! Could you be making a self-deprecating remark about we readers? Oh, ho-ho-ho! You ARE funny.
BUT COULD YOU PLEASE TAKE YOUR POO JOKES ELSEWHERE AND STOP CLOGGING UP THE PRECIOUS PAGES OF THE BEST LITERARY QUARTERLY IN THE WORLD WITH ANOTHER OF YOUR REVOLTING SHITCAKES? THANKS, STEVIE.
Shame on Dave Eggers. Am I to believe Stephen was actually PAID for his contribution? If he donated a special wing to one of Eggers’s education centres, I might forgive him. But I doubt that. I suspect King saw McSweeney’s and said: “Hey, that looks hip and cool. I want to get in that. Here’s something I wrote when I was stoned at Charlie Sheen’s mansion. Toss that off to the urchins, my current secretary.”
My final plea:
FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT’S HOLY, STEPHEN: PLEASE STOP WRITING! YOU HAVE TO STOP! PLEASE STOP! DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH SUFFERING YOU CAUSE? OH, HAVE SOME HUMANITY! STOP! STOP! STOP!