A Critic's Meta Review: 4/5
The Emerald City of Oz by L. Frank Baum (REVIEW)
And here we are - yet another one from L. Frank Baum (if that even is your real name, you duplicitous...alas, I must venture to the proverbial sauna in the happy place of my mind, so that I can perhaps cool off a little bit, you know, compose myself just enough to finish up this here review). It’s just that - I don’t know, man. Ever since that last review where I accused him of a conspiracy of the highest caliber, I have been noticing some strange things going on around my neck of the woods. Real freaky stuff.
For instance, I used to be able to walk the two or three blocks it takes to get to my neighborhood deli and grocer so I could buy a pound of powdered peanut butter (real good in a smoothie, or mixed with ether and sprinkled on top of a cinnamon roll, which they conveniently also sell there) without even having to think twice about what type of shoes I managed to slide my weary little feet into. I always assumed that, for such a short distance, any pair of kicks would do the trick.
And then, just a couple of weeks ago (not too long after that last review), the journey to acquire some of jelly’s best friend began to bring with it a substantial amount more pain than I had previously associated with it. As a matter of fact, I did not really ever associate walking to the store to get peanut butter powder a particularly arduous affair up until recently. It just was what it was - a trip. But now it has become a bad trip, an awful trip - a nightmare of a trip, and I do not use that word lightly - and I can only conclude from this that L. Frank Baum has been tracking my every movement from beyond the grave. What else would explain the backaches - bad posture? Come on, man. That takes years to feel the effects of...right? I mean, it’s not like sitting on a chair, slouched forward like peaches on a display slope in the produce section, is going to result in any permanent damage to my back or neck. You guys are reading too much crackpot conspiracy nonsense.
Well, whenever you’re ready, come join the rest of us here in the real world - where we get our kicks from accusing early twentieth-century children’s fantasy novel authors of being creepy wizards with supernatural, posthumous powers of privacy violation.