2002apr11. Hello, and welcome to the fourteenth stop on the “Rainy Day Fun and Games for Toddler and Total Bastard” virtual book tour, the book tour that’s lying in the fetal position, soaked in its own urine, muttering “Six to go ... Six to go ... ” to itself. My name is Greg Knauss and, yes, now that you ask, I am one of those self-satisfied new parents who think that they’re the first person to contribute a set of chromosomes to anything other than a hankie. And, yes, this book is entirely devoted to the documentation of the result. So now that I’ve convinced myself to buy a copy, why should you?
- I don’t own an SUV. I own a minivan, which is just as functional as an SUV, but doesn’t require that you be an asshole in order to drive it correctly. There is also no documentation on the outside of the vehicle alerting the world to my children’s academic status or their presence on-board.
- I insist that my kids behave themselves in public, and will remove them from restaurants, supermarkets and/or Papal audiences if they refuse. I will not take them into movies that were not designed for them. The fact of their existence does not automatically trump yours, no matter how much cuter they are.
- You do not know me personally, and you will never come to my house for dinner, so you will not have to be subjected to endless, adorable pictures. In fact, I present you with only a single photograph, do it solely as crass advertising and make viewing it optional, as I cannot withhold food until you provide sufficient positive feedback.
Each and every one of these is a reason to buy a copy of my book; to buy several, in fact. Because the next time you happen across anyone doing any of the above, you can pull a copy out of your trunk, hand it to them and say, “This jackass wrote a whole book about his kids, and he’s still less self-absorbed than you, dipweed. You might want to re-evaluate your decision to breed.”
Also, I could use the money. My widdle nubby-bumpkins are going to the Ivy League. Yes, they are. Yes, they are.
If you’re still not convinced – and by the look of vague nausea on your face, I don’t think you are – here’s a sample of what you'll find inside:
I walked outside to get something from the van this morning, and across the street was a neighbor, out for a walk with his toddler. I smiled and waved and noticed that they were dressed the same, his boy and him – they were wearing shorts and t-shirts and both had baseball caps on.And I thought about how we influence our children, how they’re tiny mirrors of everything we are, consciously or not. How we dress them and teach them and show them the world will influence how they live the rest of their lives.
And I turned around to head back inside and Tom was standing in the doorway, wearing a ski cap, waving my lightsaber TV clicker and without his pants.
Which pretty much confirmed my theory.
Also, questions:
Someone whose e-mail I lost asks: How many pages are in your book? I can’t find information on the So New Media site.
That’s a perceptive question, e-mail person, and it demonstrates a knowledge that the definition of “book” can range from 80-page pamphletty things up to, say, “Infinite Jest.” “Rainy Day Fun and Games for Toddler and Total Bastard,” just coincidentally, falls on the pamphletty side of the spectrum, and that’s not even counting the fact that some of the pages are packed – packed, I tell you! – with a whole sentence. In the book-selling biz, we call it a “breezy read” rather than “very expensive whitespace.”
If you have any questions about the “book,” me, my children or the basics of capitalism that allow you to exchange cash for any or all of the above, please write to me. Thanks for coming, and see you tomorrow at bernreuther.com, where I'll be talking about my kids. Imagine that.