I love Sundays. I get to sleep in late and stay in my pajamas and lie around in bed all day. Well, that's pretty much every day here, but Sundays are special. No phones ringing, either. Of course, that's pretty much every day here, too. Bummer.
Diary, I heard that Obozo got a book deal worth 26 million dollars! Can you imagine that? That's what, 3 million plus per year
To be completely honest, Bill's book was a super yawn. It must be 700 pages or more in very small type and practically no pictures, which means you really have to read all 700 pages, which is slightly less excruciating than waterboarding. That man just drones on and on about the most boring details, as if every little part of his life is super important.
I'm sorry, but if you want a book to sell, you have to get the good stuff right out front where the National Enquirer will slap it on the front page. Nothing sells books faster than dangling lurid sex stories in front of those fat housewives waiting in the grocery checkout line. They eat that stuff up like deep fried Twinkies. You never saw stories about me like that when I wrote my book. No sex stories. No sirree bob. Of course, sales were disappointing, but I left with my dignity. Kind of.
The truth is that everyone buys those books, but nobody actually reads them. We use advance copies of Bill's book as doorstops in the east wing, because that idiot didn't have the property inspected before we bought the place, and it turns out that the top floor is slanted on a 2% grade, so none of the doors stay open. What an idiot. I guess that's what happens when you get your million dollar mansion inspector from Angie's List.
Well, dear diary, I wouldn't confide this to anyone else, but I hope that Obozo character chokes on his 26 million. Besides, if I'm going to buy fiction, I'd rather go with Harry Potter.