Dayn Perry is an esteemed author whose recently published items of notable importance include “Kennesaw Mountain Landis Is Filling Out His Match.com Profile” and an image of an image on a different image titled “Well, shit, lookit that.”
“Drinking With Boileryard Clarke” is a collection of things written by Perry which are not so much stories, as they are gifts handed to us, the lower tier of people, by a rare cavalier. Gifts regarding mustaches, massage oils, baseball, disease, and the inescapable end of us, each and all. Absurd? Of course. But I ask you, potential readers of “Drinking With Boileryard Clarke,” what isn’t absurd, really?
If your single criteria for great literature is the number of references to bodily disorders that result in phlegmy discharge and ear fear, you will surely consider Perry’s “Boileryard” among the greatest books ever written. If not, you supremely underestimate the sheer power of catarrh blockages, and the author of this very review does not care if you live or die.
I am a better person because I read “Drinking With Boileryard Clarke.” Before, I was a gentleman. Now, I am a Gentleman. Before, I did not have the mailing address of NotGraphs contributor Robert J. Baumann. Now, I do, tehe.
I must add, though, that reading this masterpiece was not a venture without loss. I have now seen the cost of bastardized industry, and am since plagued by the question of where into the pickle did go Evan Longoria’s legs?
BUY THE BOOK.