Below is a tongue-in-cheek article written by an anonymous blog reader.  It is guaranteed to put a smile on your face.

Thank you, Anon. We needed the laugh.

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Goodreads, US- Almost 2 months ago, local giant book entity Goodreads began enforcing its rules banning public defecation. Area residents have been mad as hell ever since, and they’re not going to take it anymore.

“I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take it anymore!” shouted top reviewer Manny Beardie, observed as he was taking a crap on a local self-published book. “This is the crappiest service I’ve never paid for!” He then ran off, yelling “Viva la revolucion!”

Similar cries of “Hasta la victoria!” and “Give me liberty or give me death!” and “Where’s the toilet paper? Oh man, did Miranda use it all again?” echoed and still echo throughout Goodreads.

This sounds like a joke, but it’s not. When it started enforcing its rules, Goodreads did not foresee the epidemic of butthurt that would be the result. Emergency rooms, doctor’s offices and walk-in clinics have been overwhelmed by the sudden upsurge in cases.

“Cases of aggravated reviewer butthurt are up 800%” explains local medical professional Dr. Petra X. “These are far more serious than the run-of-the-mill author butthurt we see year-round. Mostly that only affects authors who don’t count.”

Outside in her waiting room, reviewers can be seen waiting patiently with duct tape over their mouths, or alternately wandering around, dropping their pants and howling in rage and pain.

“Their poor tushies” murmurs a nurse to me, munching on some Lindt chocolates. “I never saw it as bad as this.”

But the actual patients are not the only ones affected. There is a palpable sense of betrayal that Goodreads has not protected its reviewers from the vicissitudes of life. “Goodreads was a safe place for me, like a home” says one local resident. “I didn’t expect anyone to just come along and disagree with something I wrote in my own home. Now I feel unsafe, like it’s not my home anymore.”

Local housewife and romance reader Jane, 58, speaks for many when she says that Goodreads did a terrible, unforgiveable thing. Refusing to give her last name, she said: “It’s too bad Goodreads never charges its customers anything, because it makes it so much harder to boycott. I mean, you can still flounce off in a huff and then sneak back in under an assumed name, but it’s just not the same.”

Her friend Kat Ridley is even angrier. “Goodreads provides me a free space where I can practice my favorite hobby, crapping on people and books, and then tells me where and how to crap? It’s not like I’m paying them or anything! You would expect lousy quality from something you paid for, but Goodreads is free! This is an outrage!”

Her words of defiance were echoed by a group of students currently engaged in fighting their way out of a tangled snarl of reblogged blog posts at local cafe’ Booklikes.

“We, like, flounced off and came here, but it’s not the same. There are like, no public spaces where we can find authors to crap on. You have to make the effort to find them yourself.”
“Bummer.”
“Totally.”
“It’s worse than Hitler.”
Myfanwy Fantasy, 110, who runs a local Self-congratulators’ support group, has a slightly more articulate take on the problem. “I think it’s generally recognized in law that a small number of suckers pay for a service and a much larger number ride for free. I think it’s equally as beyond dispute that it’s the freeloaders who make the rules and the suckers who take whatever is handed out to them. So now Goodreads is trying to turn the laws of nature on their heads and demand that minimal respect for the suckers, on the grounds that if they continue to get crapped on they might take their business elsewhere? That doesn’t make any sense! We are through the looking-glass, people!”
Outside, in a local forest, a group of self-published authors are huddled around a campfire in the forest. Naked except for a few tattered shreds of dignity, they are surprisingly angry.
“Before Goodreads started enforcing the rules, we were getting attacked on a daily basis. Now, we’re still getting attacked on a daily basis. Nothing has changed.”
Suddenly, a terrifying roar reverberates throughout the forest. It is a sound very similar to the mating call of a bull moose in heat. The authors around the campfire begin quivering in terror, and one of them craps herself.
“Oh man! Now you’re in violation of the TOS!” the others say, but there’s no time for further talk. Shattering footsteps  can be heard coming in this direction. The naked authors scramble to their feet and dash off, before this reporter can ask what the problem is.
Dawid, head barista at the Booklikes cafe, explains it all for me.
“Eez the Great Horn Beast. Sheez like Bigfoot. At first, I thought she was legend. Before that, there was the Great Looney Beast and the Linda Ness Monster. Dat one lives in da lake. Now eez Great Horn Beast. Da kids call dis one Angela. I thought she would be good for business, you know, like Bigfoot. Good for tourists, they come. So I used to trow her scraps of food out da back. Lately though, she’s taken to breaking in at night and shitting on the counter. Maybe that wasn’t such a good idea.”
Outside in the street, as I’m heading home, an obese man in a toque shuffles ahead of me. Before I have time to think or realize what’s going on, he looks me in the eye, drops his pants and exposes his red, swollen backside. People talk about butthurt all the time, but until it drops trou right in front of you, I don’t think you really understand it. This was the most prodigious case of aggravated butthurt I have ever seen or want to see again. I take an involuntary step back, but then I’m ashamed at my reaction. So I throw him an old paperback I have in my coat pocket.
“Here man, shit on this” I mumble, and hurry away.

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