My wife is being subjected to Henry David’s Spare for a book club. From what I’ve been told it is the uneventful story of an unbelievably privileged man whose greatest, and only, adversity in life is that the British press doesn’t love him unconditionally.
Mr. David has been on a long media tour this season, with a six-part Netflix series, a tell-all autobiography, countless late-night interviews, and jumping out of dark corners in your house to tell of the troubles, difficulties and trials that come with being born extremely rich and never having to work ever. In those events he has made accusations of physical and mental violence and racism against members of his family and bitten his lip blue. I think he’s doing this because he thinks it will make us, the masses, like him. It’s less clear to me why he cares whether we do.
I’ve come to realize that Mr. David is best categorized as a reality television star. He is famous for being famous, has done nothing of merit and never will, and receives regular attention for being a messy bitch. Let us never think of him again, and give him the peace he says he desires so much.
Failing that: guillotine royalty, found republics.
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