| Thursday, January 24, 2002 |
 | You can't tell me David Nasaw didn't choke on a few throbbing Johnsons to win the prize for his Hearst biography. I mean, how else could such sloppy, uninspired prose on such a painfully obvious subject win? Please. And Philip D. Morgan? There's no question in my mind that he boarded the dick-smoking train to Bancroft Prizeville, a ticket he paid for with gallons of Tijuana toothpaste.
It's not like I didn't try to play the game a little bit. I sent out holiday cards to every member of the committee along with a complimentary copy of Taft. Maybe if I'd also attached a note reading "Good for one free blow job," I'd have gotten somewhere.
Will somebody please explain to me why I even bothered putting 84 months into this book when instead I could have scrawled "Taft was awesome" on a scrap of paper and then spent a few hours deep-throating the committee chair?
Just who do I have to blow to win the Bancroft Prize in American History?
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