A Pukelitzer Prize for FICTION

For the past three years I have walked into my favorite bookstores, seen 200 copies of Dan Brown’s The Da Vince Code sitting on the “#1 Bestseller” shelf, and asked me, “When is the highly-intelligent reading public going to give some other piece of shit a chance at being #1?” I mean, it just isn’t fair: In three years time, Nora Roberts and James Patterson have each written 30 or 40 pieces of shit apiece that surely deserve to be #1. But noooo, the misspelled Da Vinci (the name is da Vinci, small d) just sits there, week after week after week, hogging the coveted top spot. Hog, hog, hog.

(If I failed to offend anyone in that first paragraph, just wait.)

First, to the legitimate reviews. Publishers Weekly called it a “page-turner.” BFD. I contend that every book ever written is a page-turner: unless one turns the page, one cannot read pages 2, 4, 6, and so on, can one. AudioFile, which reviews audiobooks, said it was “an exciting read.” If you are expecting me to make a snide remark about reading an audiobook, your expectation is in error. Rather, I have a memo to all of the hotshot book reviewers out there. MEMO to all of you hotshot reviewers out there: "Read" is a fucking VERB, an ACTION word meaning, “To read”. One can read (VERB) an exciting (ADJECTIVE) book (NOUN), but in no manner, shape, or form can a book (NOUN) be an exciting (ADJECTIVE) read (NOUN). I suggest, then, that you professional reviewers return to third grade for a verb-noun refresher course and clean out the asspimples in your brain while you're at it.

The Da Vince Code. I’m getting to it. Just give me a minute.

I am a multi-genre reader of books, but my preferred bedtime genre has always been mystery/thriller. And boy, have I read some dandies over the years. Ken Follett’s early thrillers like Eye of the Needle and The Key to Rebecca. The Day of the Jackal by Frederick Forsyth. Robert Ludlum’s thrillers, written while he was actually alive, like The Bourne Identity and The Rhinemann Exchange. These books thrilled me, as in “To cause to feel a sudden intense sensation; to excite greatly”. Yes, folks, these books gave me mental orgasms.

But for me, The Da Vince Code did nothing but shoot blanks. I didn’t even have time to shoot a blank because I fell asleep first. What was a clever premise was, in fact, a snooze-a-thon. When I finally finished it over a period of several weeks, which is always a bad sign for a thriller, I gave it to Martha to prop up the bum leg on her storage shelves in the garage. She informs me that it works wonderfully as a propper-upper, so I guess my entire $20 investment wasn’t a total waste.

For those who must have a synopsis, here it is in shorthand. Robert Langdon, a famed symbologist, hero, personality of a mud pie. Sophie Neveu, a noted cryptologist for the French Surete, co-hero, extremely beautiful, personality of a French mud pie. The Holy Grail. Yes, that Holy Grail. The Knights Templar. Opus Dei, a whacko Catholic cult. A fellow from Opus Dei putters with flagellation. He wears a contraption around his thigh with sharp spikes that continually poke him in the balls. Poke, poke, poke. Leo da Vinci’s painting of the Last Supper. SPOILER: Jesus and Mary Magdalene and the horizontal polka. Mary, a fruitful lass, births a child after the crucifixion. 2000 years later, there’s a whole shitload of Jesus and Mary offspring running around loose. End of synopsis.

I’ll admit that I was taken in, just once, by this stupid story. Brown contends that one of the apostles in da Vinci’s Last Supper is not an apostle at all, but is in fact Mary Magdalene herself. Mildly curious, then, I took my old paint-by-numbers Last Supper off the wall and scrupulously searched it for an apostle in drag. Nope, didn’t find her, even though my painting-by-numbers was extraordinarily detailed and good.

So why, then, has this book remained a bestseller for over three years? Because, folks, millions of asspimples think this shit is TRUE! That’s right: as Tweety Bird would say, “It’s TWUE, it’s TWUE!” Only it isn’t. This is a fucking NOVEL, you idiots. If it were twue it would be in NON-fiction, or even in the religion section on the “Cockamamie Pseudo-Religious Theories” shelf. If it were twue, it would be #1 on the NON-fiction bestseller list—in which case James Frey’s A Million Little Pieces would have to switch over to #1 on the FICTION bestseller list, where it has rightly belonged all along.

To prove my point, do a Google search of The Da Vinci Code. Go ahead. Be astounded by 68,400,000 hits.

While I’m here, I might as well get The Movie out of the way, too. It starts on May 19, and it stars a formerly-great-actor-who-sold-out-for-the-money, Tom Hanks. Audrey Tatou, who was a wonderful Amelie in 2001, stars as the beautiful cryptologist. Even worse, little Opie Taylor, now known as Ron Howard, directed it. I could cry. Expect mud pie personalities, lots of meaningful “looks”, and industrial-size magnifying glasses. There will be a humdinger of a chase scene around the museum district of Paris. The music will be loud to cover the bad acting and stir emotions, like the shrieking violins in Psycho. The cockamamie theories will fly with abandon, giving no one the slightest chance to say, “Now wait just a durn minute!”

Unfortunately, I am only one humble, pissant reviewer. The pros will hate it, but millions of the faithful flock will flock to the theater anyway. All I can do is leave you with a word of caution:

If you go to the movie, and if there is an odd-looking stranger sitting next to you, and if he keeps shifting uncomfortably in his seat, then he is probably wearing a contraption that continually pokes him in the balls.

Poke, poke, poke.