Where do you buy your music? Online!
Where do you watch your TV shows and movies? Online!
Where do you watch your porn? Online!
Did you give a damn that record stores became extinct?
Did you give a damn when Suncoast Video went under as a harbinger?
Do you wring your hands at night over the fate of broadcast and cable television?
Did you weep for the X-rated movie theaters?
Just because you have a sick, nostalgic and unnatural fetish for an object called a book doesn’t mean you are anything except sick and retrogressive and, ultimately, ridiculous.
You didn’t cry when everyone else’s ox was being gored.
So STFU now about yours.
Where the hell was your voice over writers being screwed into poverty for decades?
Where the hell were you during the Google Books grand theft?
Where the hell are you today with Random House trying to keep writers locked up as their bitches?
I don’t give a damn for the object called a book.
You can round them all up and burn them for all I care.
What matters — the only thing that matters — are the words locked up in them.
You book fetishists probably don’t even understand that Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451 wasn’t about books —
— it was about the words in them. [Update: See Ray Bradbury: Mike Cane Is An Eejit]
The hell with your books.
Give me the words.
Go cry yourself to sleep over your sick attachment to an object and leave the grown ups who understand the words matter alone.
Previously at Mike Cane 2008: