The CEO of the Sofa

The CEO of the Sofa

by P. J. O'Rourke
The CEO of the Sofa

The CEO of the Sofa

by P. J. O'Rourke

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Overview

New York Times best-selling author P. J. O'Rourke lobbed one-liners on the battlefields of the Gulf War, traded quips with communist rebels in the jungles of the Philippines, and went undercover at the Dome of the Rock Mosque as P.J. of Arabia. Now, in his most challenging adventure, he journeys to the heart of that truly harrowing place — his living room. The CEO of the Sofa follows America's preeminent political humorist through a year on the domestic front as he covers stories (and visits watering holes) close to home. He waxes cynical over the election of Hillary Clinton. He waxes nostalgic over learning to drive. He waxes poetic as he adds happy endings for liberals to famous tragedies. Now if he would just wax the kitchen floor. And P.J. does still get off the couch and embark on exotic adventures — to the magical land of India, to the U.N. Millennial Summit, to a blind (drunk) wine tasting with Christopher Buckley, and, most exotical of all, to a Motel 6 where he has twenty-eight channels and a bathroom to himself. In The CEO of the Sofa, P.J. tackles everything and the kitchen sink, fighting evil, injustice, and absurdity with the gloves off and the oven mitts on. "An entertaining and engaging read." — Dick Lispey, Associated Press "O'Rourke swings cheerfully into action ... nothing has softened [his] wicked sense of fun." — Allen D. Boyer, The New York Times Book Review "His fans will love it. Democrats will grit their teeth and laugh to ease the pain." — Chicago Sun-Times

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9780802139405
Publisher: Grove/Atlantic, Inc.
Publication date: 07/23/2002
Series: O'Rourke, P. J.
Edition description: Reprint
Pages: 288
Product dimensions: 5.50(w) x 8.25(h) x 0.75(d)

About the Author

P. J. O’Rourke is the author of twelve books, including Parliament of Whores and Give War a Chance, both of which were #1 New York Times best sellers. His most recent book is the best seller On the Wealth of Nations.

Read an Excerpt

Chapter One


SEPTEMBER 2000


I was just going to say, when I was interrupted....

    "Nobody interrupted you," said my wife. "People have tried, but—"

    That was a literary reference, dear, the first line from The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table by Oliver Wendell Holmes, author of "The Wonderful 'One-Hoss Shay,'" "The Chambered Nautilus," and—

   "Other poems used mainly to torture high school students," said my young assistant, Max.

    It's a shame the way the classics are treated in our schools, I continued. Holmes was a brilliant aphorist. Americans don't read anymore. Somebody sent me some quotes from The Autocrat. Where's that letter?

    "Right next to you," said my wife, "under the remote."

    Listen to this: He must be a poor creature who does not often repeat himself. Imagine the author of the excellent piece of advice, "Know thyself," never alluding to that sentiment again.

    "Hmmm," said my wife.

    And this: All uttered thought is of the nature of an excretion. A man instinctively tries to get rid of his thought in conversation or in print so soon as it has matured.

    "Good point," said my wife, flipping through some manuscript pages of mine.

    "I printed out the rough draft of your article on the UN 2000 MillenniumSummit," said Max, "and I'm almost done with the fact-checking. I just have to go to the UN web site and—"

    I stopped him. Max, Oliver Wendell Holmes declares: All generous minds have a horror of what are commonly called "facts." Who does not know fellows that always have an ill-conditioned fact or two which they lead after them into decent company like so many bull-dogs.

    "You're welcome," said Max.

    And, Max, here is Holmes on the subject of computers—a hundred and fifty years ago. He hears about Babbage's mechanical calculating device and foresees the whole pathetic computer age: What a satire is that machine on the mere mathematician! A Frankenstein-monster, a thing without brains and without heart, too stupid to make a blunder; which turns out results like a corn-sheller, and never grows any wiser or better. Holmes calls it the triumph of the ciphering hand-organ.

    "Max," said my wife, "I thought you were going to teach P.J. how to use the laptop."

    "I've tried."

    Holmes was a man of towering intellect, of wide and deep scholarship—essayist, poet, professor, physician—

    "And major babe magnet for Transcendentalist chicks, I'll bet," said Max, "at least compared to Thoreau."

    He gave the Atlantic Monthly its name.

    "What," asked Max, "were they going to call it? The Cape Cod Nude Beach Express?"

    Holmes anticipated the germ theory of disease. He fathered the great jurist Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr. He demolished the Puritan doctrine of predestination.

    "And thought he was fated to do it," said my wife, the Catholic.

    Anyhow, as I was just going to say.... What was I going to say, dear?

    "You were probably going to say, 'Where'd that remote go?'"


Speaking of electronic devices [or electric devices, and I'm not sure I precisely know the difference, although I intend to have Max find out because I'm writing an article for the online magazine freeSpam about how the computer is the triumph of the ciphering hand-organ], the other day our daughter, Muffin, announced, "I want a cell phone."

    "You're three," said my wife.

    "But I love them."

    "Ask your father."

    I love them too, Muffin. Daddy loves cell phones because Daddy doesn't have a cell phone. Daddy doesn't have a cell phone because Daddy can't see the tiny numbers on the buttons without his reading glasses. And Daddy doesn't have his reading glasses because he left them on the shelf under the Grand Central Station pay phone, which Daddy was using to call you because Daddy doesn't have a cell phone.

    And that is what Daddy loves about cell phones—not having one. It makes your father unreachable. Being unreachable is a potent status symbol in the world today. Every dateless pimple nose with a dot.com has a Lexus, a business jet, a weekend house in Phuket, and a cell phone. But, Muffin, you just try getting the Queen of England on the blower. Or try finding the direct-dial number for the president of the United States—unless you're a rich campaign fund-raiser or a fat girl in saucy underwear. And those are two things that I trust you, Muffin, will never be.

    [Although, by this time, Muffin had in fact wandered off to watch the Sugared Cereal Channel on TV. And so, come to notice it, had everyone else.]


But as far-too-accessible Bill Clinton has proven, out-of-touch is the important thing to be. Not that anyone would be able to get in touch with me anyway. If I had a cell phone, I'd lose it. I lose everything. I left my first wife in the back of a cab somewhere. And what a great way to be important this is. I'm a big deal because my Zippo slips between the couch cushions, and I once forgot being married. That is so much easier than making a fortune or inheriting a crown.

    I also love cell phones because cell phones punish the most discourteous people in the world—phone users—by giving phone users the punishment they deserve—phone calls.

    Why does the cell phone always ring while you're having sex? This would be okay if the ringer were set on vibrate and the cell phone were properly located. But it isn't. The cell phone is in the pocket of your pants, which are hanging over the back of a chair next to the bed with your friend's wife in it, that you are hiding under because your friend has just returned, unexpectedly, from a business trip.

    "Excuse me?" said my wife from the next room.

    Just a joke, I shouted from the sofa. But why does a ringing cell phone take precedence over every other activity in life? People are willing to interrupt anything, including hiding under the bed, to answer a cell phone. During papal audiences, John Paul II probably hears, "Scuzi, Papa, mia pizza deliverio."

    Although, in fairness, the situation was as bad or worse before cell phones were invented. Muffin does not remember the pre-wireless era when people had to carry their large desk-model telephones around with them on the street, trailing miles and miles of cord. The result was an alarming tangle. It was this, rather than mismanagement of the economy or Jimmy Carter's incompetence, that caused the well-known malaise of the late 1970s.

    And what about Call Waiting? How rude is that? Why not have F— Waiting? That way you could leap up, right in the middle of being discovered by your angry cuckolded friend, and say, "Sorry, my other f— is on the living room couch."

    Why do we need cell phones? Why do we want phone calls? Think about the phone calls we get. How often do we get the following calls?

    "You've won the lottery!"

    "It's a girl!"

    "Uncle Ned just died and left us a golf resort in Florida!"

    No, the cell phone rings and it's "Honey"—you can tell by her voice she's still furious about your friend's wife—"on the way home would you pick up the dry cleaning and a gallon of milk, a package of frozen peas, new linoleum for the kitchen, and an in-ground pool?"

    What do we need cell phones for? Certainly not to say anything. Especially not in America. Americans are so inarticulate that 411 had to be supplied with a recording—"What city? What listing?"—because the phone company couldn't train operators to say anything but "Huh?" and "Whassup?"

    And all those people on their cell phones, to whom are they talking? Men are famously unable to communicate. Women are always on the other line. Parents don't talk to kids these days. Kids say "Huh?" and "Whassup?" You can't call people at work anymore because nobody comes in to the office, and if you try their cell phone you get "no service."

    Yet everyone everywhere is always on a cell phone. The best kind come with an earpiece and a microphone built into the wire so that cell phone users don't even look like they're using a cell phone; they look like crazy people raving on street corners. This, of course, is hard on the crazy people who really are raving on street corners and who—instead of receiving sympathy and 25 cents—are assumed to be calling their brokers. Anyway, whomever it is that cell phone users are raving at, it keeps them from raving at me. So 1 love cell phones.

    In fact, I love cell phones so much that I'm getting one. I'm getting a top-of-the-line highly miniaturized cell phone with all the exotic features. I'm buying new reading glasses. I'm programming my cell phone to continuously auto-dial the headquarters of both of the current presidential campaigns. Then I'm going back to New York to hang my cell phone under the tail of a Central Park carriage horse.


"It's for you," said my wife. "Your godson has been elected to the Model UN. He's going to represent all the high school students from his region."

    Since when did Darien become a nation? Hello, Nick. Congratulations! And, boy, are you in luck! You know, I've just come back from covering the UN Millennium Summit for Instant Access Quarterly. I've got everything you need. Max, would you get my UN piece and all my notes? They're in the file cabinet. Bring the whole drawer. Got a second, Nick?


You should have seen this. I wish I'd taken you with me. You wouldn't have believed it, Nick. One hundred heads of state, forty-seven heads of government, three crown princes, and assorted other eminencies such as Yasir Arafat. It was the largest gathering of world leaders in the history of mankind—and no one cared.

    Actually, Nick, everyone cared—about the traffic. New York local TV news led, the first night, with stories on the gridlock caused by 1,300 UN dignitary vehicles, including twelve cars just for the president of Georgia. And not even Newt Gingrich Georgia but the somewhat less populous sliver of mountain chaos squeezed between Azerbaijan and the Black Sea. ABC World News Tonight began with a Peter Jennings quip about Manhattan traffic jams. The next morning the front-page New York Times article noted, in its lead, "Traffic was backed up across the East Side yesterday because of a crush of limousines carrying VIPs everywhere from the United Nations Plaza Hotel to the Bronx Zoo." The latter being the big non-traffic story in the New York press. Denis Sassou-Nguesso, president of the Congo Republic, visited the Congo Gorilla Forest exhibit to see gorillas that come from the Congo where he's president. A global convergence, we-are-one-world moment? Or gridlock on Planet of the Apes?

    The next morning, a TV news show reported that Bangladesh had a thirteen-car motorcade. This was modest compared to President Clinton's, which, a traffic cop told me, consisted of forty-five vehicles. "And the last two times they were in town," said the cop, "they had accidents." But Bangladesh is a country where 29 percent of the population lives on less than a dollar a day. Figuring the thirteen motorcade cars and drivers at $50 an hour, twelve hours a day, for the four days of the summit, the Bangladesh delegation just took the bread out of the mouths of 31,000 people. Not that I'm accusing the delegation of living large. I saw the entire collection of Bangladeshi Lincoln Town Cars lined up at a Wendy's on Second Avenue.

    The indifference with which the Millennium Summit was greeted by everyone except commuters says a lot about present-day global politics. Not to mention what it says about present-day global politicians—this was no confab of Churchills, Roosevelts, Hiders, Tojos, and Stalins. And what a relief. An excess of international leadership usually results in bullets and breadlines.

    Maybe the world—Bangladesh to the contrary—has become rich enough to be bored by global politics. This is good. Politics cause more grief than money. Take the Vietnam War, for instance. How much would the U.S. government have had to pay 47,000 Americans, putting the job out for bid under strict free-market conditions, to go die in Vietnam?

    Not that money can't be used to do harm. Ted Turner says he's giving a billion dollars to the UN. Turner's overfunded UN Foundation helped sponsor a convocation of more than a thousand religious and spiritual leaders at the UN the week before the Millennium Summit. Thank God—as it were—I didn't have to cover that. The purpose of this "Millennium World Peace Summit" was, according to the mystical gathering's communications director, "to see how religious leaders can bring the power of their own spiritual traditions to work with UN forces ... to help reduce conflict." For fear of conflict with the communist Chinese, however, the Dalai Lama wasn't invited. The communist Chinese being atheists, I'd say religious and spiritual leaders are 0 for 1 so far.

    But, Nick, I don't want to give you the impression that I don't like the United Nations. I do. I think it's extremely cool, especially the whole black-helicopter New World Order secret-global-government thing. I love it. It'll be like DC Comics' Justice League International, except the Security Council members will have superpowers such as the ability to sit through six-hour meetings without going to the bathroom, the ability to figure out what "Document 5: Text of draft optional protocol submitted by the Chairperson (E/CN.6/1997/WH/L.1)" means, the ability to simultaneously translate the click language of the Kalahari bushmen into Farsi, and the ability to fly (business class). And to judge by the crowds in Manhattan's pricier restaurants during the Millennium Summit, UN superheroes will also have supper powers. I can hardly wait. I figure a world government run by the UN will be like getting an old, purblind, half-deaf substitute teacher—or like being baby-sat by your fifty-two-year-old godfather when I'm drinking. Have you seen The Art of War? Wesley Snipes is a member of a United Nations covert action unit, and he's completely out of control.

    "Uncle Peej," said my godson, who seemed to be in a hurry, "could you, like, get Max to e-mail this stuff to me?"


Dear Nick,

    I was just going to say, when I was interrupted....

    Because The Art of War had a lot of good chase scenes and explosions, it was with a certain measure of enthusiasm that I went, last week, to the United Nations Media Accreditation and Liaison Unit Media Division/Department of Public Information to get my 2000 UN Millennium Summit press credentials. Except I couldn't find the Division/ Department. Though with a name as long as that, you'd think just the size of the sign would give it away. The UN was cordoned off by thousands, maybe tens of thousands, of uniformed officers, security guards, and plainclothesmen, every one of whom was almost, but not quite, too busy and annoyed to point me in the wrong direction. I mistakenly got into the line for the Uganda mission—a long line. Why were people lined up to get into the Uganda mission? To get Uganda immigration visas? Were their own countries so screwed up that they wanted to move to Uganda? Actually, probably, yes.

    In due time I found the proper line. It was a much shorter line. In fact, it wasn't a very long line at all, notwithstanding which I stood in it for an hour and fifteen minutes. The Division/Department was bare and stuffy. The only decorations were photocopied flyers Scotch-taped to the wall, bearing such enticing messages as:


MEDI ADVISORY
PHOTO OP
The Presidents of Finland and Namibia,
the two co-chairs of the Summit,
will meet each other for the first time
at 6:20 P.M.
today, 5 September,
in the neck area outside the
Delegates' Lounge


    Well, who knows, maybe sparks would fly. (The Delegates' Lounge has a "neck area"?)

    The credentials were prepared, waiting for us journalists to collect them. But our names seemed to have been filed according to shoe size, or phase of the moon when application was submitted, or by using the ancient Cretan Linear A alphabet, the key to which has been lost in the mists of time.

    UN functionaries were arrayed behind wobbly folding tables. Whenever a journalist approached and asked for credentials, the functionaries would express mild shock and dismay. Such a request came as a complete surprise to them. The functionaries would consult among themselves, agree at last to search for the appropriate document, then plunge into an enormous heap of manila folders and stay there for the rest of the afternoon.

    Maybe this is why we don't see so many of those black helicopters. The pilots are probably stuck down at the United Nations Secret Weapon and Unmarked Aircraft Registration and Licensing Division/ Department of World Domination while somebody looks for the helicopter keys.

    Or maybe the pilots got arrested in some foul-up among the various competing security agencies on hand. There was at least one pack of big-buddies-with-sunglasses for every foreign poobah, plus Secret Service, State Department Security, UN Security, FBI, ATF, NYPD—the works. Forget politicos, this was the largest gathering of guys with radio earpieces sticking out of their jacket collars in the history of mankind. And all of the security people were listening to voices through those earpieces, making them twitch and look around and mutter to themselves. It was like arriving in the midst of a gigantic convention of unusually well-dressed schizophrenics. If these fellows got together and made any treaties and agreements among themselves, we're all in trouble.

    It's a shame the police types were too busy to do anything about actual criminals, such as about one-fourth of the world leaders on hand. The political opponents of Zimbabwe's Robert Mugabe have a knack for conveniently dying, and Mugabe uses the thugs in his political party to terrorize landowners. China's Jiang Zemin is brutal with Falun Gong religious dissidents and murderous in Tibet. Omar Hassan Ahmad Al-Bashir, president of Sudan, leads a genocidal war against Christian and animist tribes in his country. Mohammad Khatami's Iran sponsors worldwide terrorism. Islam A. Karimov is a vicious dictator in Uzbekistan. God knows what Vladimir Putin has been up to in Russia, but it's nothing nice, say the Chechens. Castro is an old butcher from way back. And, in the matter of mopery, sexual misdemeanors, and lurking with criminal intent, there was our own Bill Clinton.

    At least the loathsome North Koreans didn't make it. The number-two Pyongyang commie, Kim Yong Nam, and his fourteen wiseguy delegates stopped by—of all the unlikely crime-fighting forces—rude airline personnel. American Airlines wouldn't let the North Koreans onto the Frankfurt-New York flight without pat-downs and luggage inspections. I can just hear the snippy people at the check-in counter: "I'm sorry, but your weapons-grade plutonium must fit in the overhead compartment or under the seat in front of you." By the time Kim Yong Nam et al. got done throwing tantrums, they'd missed their flight. And happy fiftieth anniversary of the beginning of the Korean War to you, too, assholes.


Fortunately I was walking to UN headquarters instead of flying and only had to contend with all the law enforcement agencies on earth and not American Airlines. Thus I was able to saunter into the General Assembly building simply by flashing my credentials. These consisted of one piece of laminated plastic containing blurry print and a picture, allegedly of me, which looked like it was clipped from the middle of a five-dollar bill.

    I was just in time to see the fifty-fifth session of the UN brought to order by the newly elected president of the General Assembly, a former prime minister of Finland, Harri Holkeri, who seems like a perfectly nice man despite his Japanese suicide of a name and who can almost speak English. After some opening blandishments, President Holkeri presented the General Assembly with its first piece of serious business under his regime, a plan "to start the General Assembly meetings on time." A fitting proposal, inasmuch as this particular General Assembly meeting was starting twenty minutes late with most of its delegates absent from their seats.

    Next order of business was the admission of Tuvalu as a member of the United Nations. Two-of-what? You may well ask. Tuvalu is a former British colony consisting of nine coral atolls halfway between Hawaii and Australia with a land area one-tenth the size of Washington, D.C., and a population of 10,297. My college had fraternity houses larger than that. What's next? Sigma Chi becomes a NATO power? Tuvalu has no crops, no industry, and no known mineral resources. It has no drinking water except what's collected in rain barrels. The economy is based—seriously—on selling Tuvalu stamps to collectors.

    The charter of the United Nations states in Article 2, paragraph 1, "The Organization is based on the principle of sovereign equality of all its Members." And no doubt a very good principle this is. But Tuvalu? "If there are no objections ..." said President Holkeri. And no one in the General Assembly did object or, as far as I could tell, notice.


Having exhausted my interest in the doings of the General Assembly, I wandered into Conference Room 1 in the UN's unimaginatively named Conference Building. Here something called "Dialogue Among Civilizations" was being conducted. Conducted by whom and for what purpose I don't know. Although I do know that "Dialogue Among Civilizations" was Iran's idea and, considering the ideas Iran has had in the past, such as holding scores of Americans hostage, having an eight-year war with Iraq, and sponsoring worldwide terrorism, I figured it would be interesting. I was wrong.

    I had missed the morning session where Iran's president, Mohammad Khatami himself, gave a speech that Secretary of State Madeleine Albright called thought-provoking and The New York Times called "vague." And I would have missed the afternoon session if it hadn't (notice to President Holkeri) started fifty minutes late. Somebody on the conference podium, I have no idea who, spent a long time proposing a "Question for Conversation," the question being "How do we focus the conversation on dialogue?" Although I was under the impression that conversation is dialogue, otherwise social life would be like ... like sitting in Conference Room 1 listening to the first speaker on the subject of dialogue, who was former UN Secretary General Javier Perez de Cuellar, age eighty, who couldn't find the ON button for his microphone and ,when he did find it, said, "For almost sixty years we are dialoguing here." No, no, Javier, twenty minutes by my watch, although I know it seems like sixty years. The former secretary general wanted counties to have "dialogue not only among but within themselves." He said democracy was good for this, although I'll bet the upcoming Bush/Gore debates will argue otherwise.

(Continues...)


Excerpted from THE CEO OF THE SOFA by P. J. O'ROURKE. Copyright © 2001 by P. J. O'Rourke. Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

Table of Contents

AcknowledgmentsXIII
Chapter ISeptember 20001
Oliver Wendell Holmes has been agreeing with the CEO's opinions for nearly one hundred and fifty years
The CEO's wife does so less frequently
The CEO speaks on the subject of mobile phones in the manner of a 1959 curmudgeon inveighing against transistor radios
Imagine if cheap devices to broadcast noise for idiots had allowed idiots to broadcast noise in return
The UN is visited--a nice enough place until it was discovered by foreigners
Chapter IIOctober 200024
The CEO considers stock market investments and decides that risk may be involved
His wife suggests getting a job but wonders if anything is available in the field of monkey business
The CEO considers employment and decides that work may be involved
He conceives a brilliant idea for making his fortune by thinking like a toddler but cannot find a play group with a wet bar
Chapter IIINovember 200044
The candidates for the 2000 presidential election are given a thorough examination although the mainstream media are allowed to do the part involving a check for prostate enlargement
The mainstream media encounter themselves up there
Hillary Clinton is praised for her abilities as a GOP fund-raiser
The Political Nut, who often shows up in the CEO's household during the cocktail hour, thinks eBay could make political corruption more market-oriented
Chapter IVDecember 200062
The CEO argues that Las Vegas is superior to Venice as a vacation destination--having found himself in better shape after being pulled over in traffic by the Nevada Highway Patrol than he was after being pulled out of a canal by the Italian carabinieri
Christmas gifts are chosen
The CEO carefully inspects the catalog from Blunderwear--lingerie that would be a mistake for anyone other than the catalog models
Hillary Clinton is embraced again--not, thank goodness, in her lingerie
The CEO attempts to bring modern ideas of caring and compassion to great works of literature but discovers that banning the death penalty ruins many masterpieces
At the end of A Tale of Two Cities, Sidney Carton has to explain to his parole officer that he's become a better person
Chapter VJanuary 200177
Decadence is pondered and found to be a rotten old idea
The CEO begins an essay on how to get properly inebriated but realizes he has important research to do
He embarks, with his friend Chris Buckley, on a blind (drunk) wine tasting, the results of which have to be carried home flat on their backs in an SUV
The Political Nut beats a dead horse but Bill Clinton keeps whinnying
The impeachment is fondly remembered, and plans are made for a Bill Clinton/Ken Starr reunion tour
The CEO meditates upon hypocrisy and decides that you can't fake it
Chapter VIFebruary 2001108
The CEO is perplexed by the quantitative nature of modern celebrity and wonders how many times Thomas De Quincey would have to be arrested for opium eating to become as famous as Robert Downey, Jr.
The CEO is--thanks to the miracle of modern car alarms--able to teach his teenage godson how to parallel park by sonar
The CEO lectures his young assistant on the virtues of the automobile: Consider having a hot date and needing to borrow your father's feet
Chapter VIIMarch 2001136
The CEO intends to write his memoirs but forgets
He helps with his godson's homework instead, asking, "What's all this argle-bargle about the loss of certainty in modern mathematics? I was never able to get anything to add up the same way twice."
The CEO explains the concept of "spring break" to his godson who hears the lyrics of "Where the Boys Are" with disbelief and disputes the idea that Connie Francis and George Hamilton were ever teenagers
Chapter VIIIApril 2001159
The Democrats next door are vanquished by the CEO's logic and are forced to resort to low political tactics such as not letting the CEO borrow their string trimmer
As an Oprah guest, Hitler is suggested: a larger-than-life personality who wrote a popular book about his struggle with personal issues
The CEO argues against legalizing drugs, now that the statute of limitation has expired on his behavior in the 1960s
Then the CEO argues in favor of legalizing drugs, if the federal government promises not to tell his wife
Chapter IXMay 2001178
A new baby-sitter arrives on the scene causing romantic disturbance--for those in love with Keynesian economic assumptions
The CEO reveals his secret for avoiding stardom as a television commentator
The CEO holds forth on the proponents of Earth Day and declares them "Dirt of the Earth."
Counsel is consulted and a brief is filed on missile defense
The CEO prefers a plea of guilty rather than nolo contendere
The CEO's baby-sitter and young assistant are chastised for swiping tunes with MP3 technology--especially since none of the tunes swiped is "Volare" or "Moon River."
San Francisco passes a law forbidding discrimination against the fat, and the CEO is outraged that the lazy aren't included
Chapter XJune 2001203
A blessed event occurs consisting of the arrival, in plain brown wrapper, of cigars from Cuba
The CEO's wife has a baby, too
The CEO's godson finds there are difficulties in dating a young lady who can do risk-analysis computations
Breast feeding is an excellent method of getting a big baby to sleep, but the CEO is up in the middle of the night anyway
The second anniversary of the air war in Kosovo is celebrated with suitable pomp
The CEO declares the e-mail fad has run its course and buys stock in the Mimeograph corporation
Wives are praised for not killing their husbands, particularly the husband the CEO's wife is married to
Chapter XIJuly 2001225
India is traversed and the wild Indians are ... well, let's just say Dancing with Wolves got it all wrong
The CEO proposes that an inexpensive second honeymoon could be had right in the living room if a second bottle of scotch can be procured
The CEO's wife goes in search of the keys to the gun cabinet
Chapter XIIAugust 2001247
The CEO's godson's sister experiences rather more enlightenment than can stand the light of day
The Political Nut counters with a more sensitive and less judgmental upgrade of the Ten Commandments
Good feelings prevail
The Political Nut decides to apologize for all the horrible things he's said about Democrats--especially the true things
The baby-sitter tutors the CEO's godson in the higher mathematics of: [characters not reproducible]
The CEO's young assistant gets a real job
Hunter S. Thompson is shown, through rigorous textual analysis of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, to be a heck of a nice guy
The CEO's wife gets the CEO to shut up
A happy ending is had by all
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