To them, I donate my labor—a free philosopher’s stone. Use “The Streamlined Banana” to instantly separate the golden grain from the glamorous chaff masquerading in a corporate mess-of-pottage tie.
Now all that's left is to decide—what do we apply it to? This tutorial uses a book (?) named S*hole (asterisks deployed to avoid the slightest chance of promoting the crap). The compiler, a certain Avdey Scumblower (any coincidence with real persons would utterly amaze me), was awarded the Big Book Prize—and the shit was reprinted that very same year.
In the top right corner of the cover sits a diamond-shaped icon: <18+>. It instantly makes the gourmets drool…
But don't give in to unbridled instincts. You won't find a single drop of real life across all 537 pages of this politically charged, highbrow bosh. The icon is a mere decoy for suckers, shamelessly slapped on by marketing geeks.
Yes, but why on earth do I need it? Excellent question! If anyone can figure it out, please let me know—I'm curious too.
2026-07-27
5
Part One
1
“The theater begins with a staircase, and a book with a preface.” That was the subtly brilliant line I originally chose to kick off my review of this five-hundred-odd-page monstrosity.
After all, why not flaunt my elegantly aphoristic style? It’s not every day one gets the chance to cast oneself in such a flattering light. Fortunately, I managed to restrain the swelling impulse just in time.
Whoa, hold on, you rascal! Stanislavsky didn’t say a peep about a staircase in his famous quote; the wary cat kept it strictly to the cloakroom with its coat racks. Which, by the way, makes perfect sense if you compare the number of stairs to coat racks per theater on a national average.
However, taking such unprepared, off-the-cuff jumps without a safety net or proper fire support—to hell with all that elegance!—I decided, no leaping from the coat racks to the stairs and back.
Besides, the circus is doing just fine without me; its popularity is at an all-time high. Wherever you look, everyone is hustling, brazenly revved up, rushing to jack up their prices as high as possible. Selling oneself to the amazed public is rule one in the age of hectic monetization. Move it, move it, guys!
Deep down, he knows damn well he’s overcharging. He isn't some big-shot counterculture icon yet, and frankly, nobody gives a flying rat's ass about him. It’s just how marketing by the stab-in-the-dark method works.
Whoever disagrees that Hollywood and Netflix have, by their joint efforts, conditioned us to cherish the American Dream is pulling for a lost cause. We sympathize with brave go-getters who always find a way and get a happy ending.
In you, a vague conviction sprouts that you're already in that land of triumphant individualism—the great USA. Some shady hooker, isn’t she? Having conquered her own backyard, she’s now barging into ours to teach us how to live.
Make sure you sling the gun at light speed, become the top dog in tomorrow's shootout, and—boom!—you’re the new sheriff. Next thing you know, your spurs are drawing doodles on the governor’s desktop, and that’s it: go ahead and stake out a stable for your Cadillac on Capitol Hill. Easy peasy.
Just adjust the master plan to fit the local reality of your one-horse burg, and—go, go, go! Time is money, money is round—move it, fellas! Let’s monetize! Hose-lipped brides will be our prize!
