A FOREWORD TO MY FATHER’S TREE
I am not sure why anyone would want to read the drivel found between the covers of this book, if it even qualifies as a book. The best part of this book was found on the fly where the author made an awkward attempt at self-deprecating humor that has since been deleted. The name alone, Steve Smith, suggests that he is in the witness protection program.
I am not sure why I agreed to write a foreword to something as backward as this vast wasteland of time and effort. I will be frank. I needed the cash. Smith needed a notable personality, someone with credibility, someone capable of crafting a few elegant paragraphs; paragraphs that would seduce the unfortunate person who opened this garbage bag. Smith wanted hearts to throb and tears to well up in the corners of patriotic eyes as I drew you into reading his vision of his predecessor’s adventures. Smith couldn’t find anyone willing to first read this text before writing a foreword. I mean, look at this thick volume! It’s nothing more than a doorstop! It would better serve as an anchor for a canoe. It wouldn’t even look good on your compost pile.
I offered to write a foreword in exchange for a small fee that would cover the cost of my prescription drug supplemental insurance, with the promise that I would read the book “someday in the future.” I suspect you will finish reading this before I ever do. If so, please go to my website and jot a few comments about the book. I will include your words as part of the foreword I had promised to write. In the meantime, this will have to do: Read this book or suffer the consequences.
Someone should. Can it be called a book if it hasn’t been read?
By the way: I asked Smith to avoid identifying me by name, as I am nervous about being associated with this work. Trust me though, I am a notable personality and I have established my credibility by maintaining a Facebook page, Instagram account and some cool images of early post-modern origami on Pinterest.
PS: I am serious, Smith If you want a decent foreword you are going to have to pay me in something other than a six pack of second-rate home-brew manufactured in the dark recesses of a Wisconsin wood shed by a guy named Wilbur ‘Rancidbatch’ Denton.
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Author’s Note to Stephen O’Brien: Thank you for this Foreword. As always, I am grateful for your candor and support. – S Smith
