Kurt Vonnegut Jr. knocked on my door. A door was a temporary barrier between two universes. When Kurt entered my universe he sat in my chair. It’s a chair that reminded me of one my paternal grandfather used to sit on. His name was Perry and he was the fourth son of a slew of first born sons dating back almost two-hundred years to William Ethington, a criminal from England.

In this universe, where Kurt sat in my chair, I had not yet read his novel Breakfast of Champions. It was at this time he told me, that Breakfast of Champions was a bad book. I know, I said. I knew because I had not read it, I had however voluntarily listened as his words were vocalized at me.

Kurt’s book is a specific kind of bad. In many other specific kind of ways it is quite good, excellent even. If you are looking for a story of fiction you will be left wanting. There is no plot to speak of, there is only Kurt. As Kurt rocks back and forth in my chair he mentions how he wrote this book. He told me how he reached in and scooped out his brain, he went on to say how he shook it vigorously and let all the random things he had been hoarding for the fifty years of his life fall to the page. He populated it with some characters including his favorite, Kilgore Trout, an older alter-ego with fatherly scars. He then spoke of how he dove into the page and played with his thoughts and characters like a child in a playground. A playground was where little adults went to release pent up energy. They would shoot this energy out of their bodies by jumping, swinging and climbing to great heights. And so on.

Kurt then told me how his book was not really a book, it was his leak. He then stood up and walked out of my universe. He had been dead for many years, etc.