Living Underneath Tables and Other Modern Fables

I always wanted to write a book where I call the general populace a bunch of limp dicks and desiccated pussies; however my editor refused to publish anything so honest. Luckily I am the master of work-arounds. So in the guise of modeling hard-dickitude and wet-pussiness I managed to trick my editor into publishing this memoir by concealing my recriminations inside stories. Follow me as I take Kerouac's On the Road beneath a table. Oddly enough there were nearly as many drug dealers sexpots and weirdoes in an empty room at a reception hall as there were if you had hitchhiked across America in the late 1940s. While hiding from both management and low-lifes alike I secreted myself behind the white shroud of a skirted table. Beneath this table I found friendship love and a workable philosophy on how to live life. Lying prone beneath a rectangular skirted table I learned ironically enough how to think outside the box. Also I've never actually had an editor.