I have come to the decision — since it is banned books week, after all — that my books are vile, wretched specimens of American pop culture. They prominently feature:
Gratuitous sexual exploits!
CHILDREN ARE READING MY BOOKS.
I’ve seen these children. On the playgrounds of America. Smoking cigarillos and drinking high-fructose corn syrup right out of the bottle. In each of their hands, a copy of Blackbirds, or Blue Blazes, or the gateway drug, Under the Empyrean Sky — a book I wrote specifically to hook the youth of America on my disgusting meth-candy prose. My god, who let me loose on the bookshelves? My books are a virus! A horrible, salacious virus featuring sex and drugs and sexy drugs and druggy sex and naughty words and cigarette-smoking and surly teenagers and knives and guns and whiskey and sentence fragments and rampant metaphors and —
FOR THE LOVE OF PETE, THINK OF THE CHILDREN.
My books rend innocence the way cats claw sweaters.
So, I think the only solution is to ban them.
Ban them noisily! Loudly! In public! Get together your boycotts, your petitions. Call the news media! Call the principal of your school! CALL THE PRESIDENT OF THESE UNITED STATES. Buy several copies of my books — as many as you can carry! — to get this wretchedness off the shelves (the equivalent of sucking snake venom from a viper bite). Then stack up all those books and burn them. On television, if possible. Get pictures! For USA Today.
Kidnap Matt Lauer. Force him to understand. (Don’t forget to kidnap a cameraman, too.)
My books are a toxin.
A sexy, sassy toxin. That will ruin teenagers. And turn you all into sexy drug zombies.
I know the time is now.
Buy my books. All of them.
And then ban the crap out of them.
I eagerly await you doing the right thing.
I eagerly await all the banhammers and burnination.
*noisily sips Earl Grey tea*