Moby Dick - A Two Dogs Book Review!

For all of you that come here to get every piece of information that is overwhelmingly important, I have thrown myself under the bus and taken upon my gianormous shoulders the daunting task of reading Herman Melville's Moby Dick.

Okay, here we go....Holy crap, I think that I will never get over the suffocating need to return to bed and sleep for at least another forty-three years. I had to drop to my knees and give praise to my chosen worship idol for never being required to read this overblown piece of tripe. I promise if I ever have the chance to dig up Hermy and beat him to death again, I shall leap at that chance.

Any English or Literature professor that makes this required reading should be taken out back, tied to a hornet's nest, and then every single student that they ever had should be allowed to gang rape them anally. Female students shall use an open umbrella covered in barb wire.

Truthfully, this is the single worst book that I have ever read and I have read Terry McMillan's How Stella Got Her Groove Back. Moby Dick is honestly the Queen of the Damned of Literature. Just the fact that this book was not slated to be burned in front of joyous children that have been tortured with the punishment of reading this crap proves that G_d is not actively manipulating our actions.

Now, on to the story. Seems that this book is narrated by the Greek G_d of boring, that goes by the name of Ishmael. I know that he must be a G_d because he is an overwhelmingly anal retentive narrator of Biblical proportions. The prose of this instruction manual on whale fishing honestly put me to sleep a minimum of three hundred times in less than two weeks. How frigging many different ways can you type the word "whale?" Herman only knows "leviathan." Geez. This is a classic? Yeah, a classic turd. It took me two weeks to read it because I had to find the right torture implement that was powerful enough to keep me awake during my reading time. What I wound up with was a burlap sack full of rabid weasels that I tied around my scrotum. Painful? You betcha, but it still didn't work about 90% of the time.

Sleep debt? Gone, baby. Nuts? Hurting. Weasels? Let 'em go over in Dewayne's yard and took care of that damn cat that was scratching up my car. Dewayne has asked me at least twenty times what happened to Bolivar. His cat's name was Bolivar, how strange. Remember, Dewayne is the neighbor that cuts my grass so I couldn't actually tell him to keep his damn cat off my damn car.

Sorry, the book, oh yeah. DO NOT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES READ THIS DAMN BOOK. If your child comes home and says that Moby Dick is required reading for him/her, immediately withdraw that poor tortured child from their school and send them for a month to Disneyworld. One whole month, dammit. Haven't they suffered enough? Salem's witches didn't have it that damn bad. I seriously would rather be a Kurd under the regime of Sadaam.

The next time that I get an urge to read any of Mr. Melville's work, I am going to consult my male dog, Sarah, for his opinion, which is shown in its entirety below.