The Onion A.V. Club asks Neal Pollack, “What is funny?” He responds:
It’s funny that the press has gone so shit bonkers over Ass-Reamings For A New Millennium, my recent volume of literary criticism. I’ve got news for you, Salon.com. These are not “the puerile revenge fantasies of a third-rate mind.” Don’t let jealousy cloud your judgment just because you lack a guiding aesthetic. When I say, “The collected work of David Foster Wallace is like a date-rape drug. You get woozy on a dime, then fall into a coma-like sleep, and the next morning you wake up in a ditch,” I mean every word. Edmund Wilson couldn’t have written a sentence better than the following: “Joyce Carol Oates’ words ooze onto the page like the pus from a syphilitic whore’s vaginal sores.” Now, that’s literary criticism, and don’t you dare tell me otherwise!
There’s more, featuring goat testicles and a meat grinder.