The Jungle

The other day I started reading "The Jungle" by Upton Sinclair. I can't get over that name; "Upton." What a sissy name it is. I bet that dude got the shit beat out of him on a regular basis. I can't even imagine why someone would name their child that. And that last name... "Sinclair." No offense to anyone living today, but even that surname just screams "Pussy." And not in the "Check me out, I get tons of Pussy" vein; more in the "Christ, I am such a pussy" category. My grandfather always said "Don't speak ill of the dead, you ingrate," but I bet even if he were a vengeful ghost, I could still beat the living (or undead) crap out of Upton Sinclair. Plus, Grandpa used to touch cousin Shana in her flowerbox. I saw him do it once.

As for the book, it's a wacky story about the hijinx and shenanigans that went on in the meat packing industry at the turn of the previous century. My friend Schooly G would probably make a real lame joke about the phrase 'Meat packing industry' at this point, but thankfully I'm way above that. Though I might add as a side note that your mother and I once started our own meat packing industry, but we had to call it quits once her rectum prolapsed. You know what I'm talking about!