Wednesday, January 25, 2006


Stephen Weeks parodies James Frey.

The worst was yet to come. One morning, instead of waking up in my Noho Megaloft, I find myself in the bedroom of my childhood home, where the book began. I was lying in bed, playing Russian Roulette and smoking creosote, wanting to kill myself after having crashed into a busload of mentally handicapped children when I had drunkenly commandeered a freight truck filled with live chickens, and lost control of the vehicle while trying to shoot heroin and do shots at the same time.
(If you have no clue who James Frey is, this should get you caught up.)

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