I can barely credit that they have made a movie from that turgid nonsense by Ayn Rand.
I have about eighteen copies of â€œAtlas Shruggedâ€ â€“ all signed in that self-consciously spiky handwriting of hers.
Every Christmas from 1957 onwards, a present would arrive from Ayn by ordinary post. It would be wrapped in festive newspaper, usually with a gift-tag recycled from last year, and every fucking time it would be a fucking copy of fucking Atlas fucking Shrugged.
Theyâ€™re good for weighting down decoupage projects, although when it comes to slugging a nurse over the head when I want to sneak out to buy booze, nothing beats my signed first edition of â€œThe Fountainheadâ€. Mind you, it might be easier just to read it to them. Whoo, what a stinker it is. Temazepam in libric form.
This has to be one of the funniest damned things I’ve read on the Internet in a long, long time.Â Just excerpting it here, so people will know to go to Sarah’s site to read the whole thing.Â Trust me, it’s worth the trip.