Cade reviews last week’s review, in which Cade reviewed his own review as he was writing the review.

Trash. Self-indulgent trash. Out of everything that has existed, currently exists, or will exist in the future, the review itself was the subject of the review last week? A scathing indictment of the world’s early response to the AIDS epidemic could have been written. A statement could have been made about the plight of elephants in captivity. The war in Iraq, one of the most pivotal conflicts in the nascent 21st Century, could have been explored. But instead, a stinking, steaming pile of hot, navel-gazing word garbage was left on the doorstep of the Internet.

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Cade reviews this review.

I guess maybe reviewing this review is kind of clever. I mean how many people have ever reviewed their own review as they were writing their review?

Well, maybe it’s not that clever, since I could have written about anything in the entire world, and I chose to write about the thing that I’m writing. Which might be kind of obvious. It’s almost like I just decided to write about the last word I thought about when I thought, “Hey, I’m writing a review.” No further thinking required, just - boom, “Review? Sure, I’ll write a review on the review I’m writing! Why not?”

But, I mean, it’s definitely a little clever. It’s not something you see every day. To think of reviewing your own review is maybe so obvious that it’s not obvious at all. Just because it’s the last word that you think of when you think to yourself that you should write a review doesn’t preclude it from being reviewable. I mean, I thought of a lot of things to review before settling on reviewing this review.

And how do you review a review that’s reviewing the fact that it’s reviewing itself? That doesn’t sound too easy. But something that’s hard to review wouldn’t automatically lend itself to a good review. I mean, I could completely fail at writing a review about something that’s hard to review, which makes sense, because it’s hard to review.

But is reviewing this review even really a hard review?

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Cade reviews The Dispossessed by Ursula K. Le Guin.


Published in 1974, The Dispossessed is a book with apparently passable, but certainly unremarkable dimensions, clocking in at 4 and 1/8” wide, 6 and 2/3” long, and a middling 1 and 1/8” inches thick.

Like any reading material bigger than a pamphlet, yes, The Dispossessed can keep a pile of paper from being blown about by an errant breeze. However, I’m confident that it cannot provide the numerous benefits that a more substantial book can confer. Let’s see how it performs.

After a week’s worth of regular curls, I noticed little to no difference in the size of my bicep when using The Dispossessed as a weight. In fact, my arm felt minimal fatigue. But after lifting The Short Stories of F. Scott Fitzgerald, my arm soon became sore, and I found that it had swollen from the size of a diminutive birch tree branch to the size of a small maple bough.

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Cade reviews Loki.

Sometimes I call him Loke, Schmoke, Schmokey, or Loki-Schmokey-Alamazokey.

He’s basically the cutest.

Did you know that sometimes he eats too much too fast and then throws up (but not on purpose)?

Except for blood relatives, I love him more than anyone else in the world.

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Cade reviews Fruit Punch Gatorade.


I want you

like a man who didn’t have

any fluids with dinner.

Because I didn’t.

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Cade reviews Nestlé Crunch.


A crunch? A crunch?

How could Nestlé have the audacity, the gall, the temerity, the brazen contempt for sound itself, as well as the basic tenets of reality, to name this delicious chocolate treat the “Crunch” bar? Built on a foundation of lies, the Nestlé Crunch bar has peddled inappropriate onomatopoeia across the globe for 76 years and counting.

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Cade reviews this pair of scissors.

The arms cross each other, forming a gaping maw, like when your father made a shadow puppet alligator on the wall.  As the arms close into a bite, metal teeth hiss menacingly, forewarning the coming cut, the impending divide.

It is the simplest of machines, this mechanical schism inducer; an ancient Egyptian invention now adopted by suburban swordsmen, blades swirling about a small pivot at its nexus, all in the service of, say, slicing string with your mother for wrapping the ham, severing paper in the shape of snowflakes together, or even curling ribbons on a 10th anniversary gift with your father.

The hand’s confederate in a scheme to divide, it is an effective weapon against any union, save that of some materials, like metals or your parents marriage, whose split wasn’t your fault, they said, but you never believed them.

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Cade reviews high fives.

Did you wash your hands? I know our hands will only touch for like, one thousandth of a second, but I need you to wash your hands.

What? Why do you gotta’ wash your hands? Because YOU’RE the one who wants a high five, that’s why. I didn’t ask for this.

Okay, okay, fine. You don’t have to wash your hands. Let’s just do it, let’s get it over with.

No! Not too hard. No, I saw you winding up like you were trying to throw out the opening pitch in a baseball game. Relax, lady. Take it easy; we’re all friends here.

Okay, let’s just do this.

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Cade reviews eating an upside down Snickers bar.


Your teeth have traveled far enough on rocky ground. All your life they have fallen upon the peanut protuberances that lay under a thin chocolate shell, immediately mixing upon impact with the strata of confectionery sediment below, nougat and caramel combining with the legume’s crunchy lithology to create a consistently chunky candy bar experience. At first you ventured across this candy landscape as an intrepid Mars mountaineer; enervated by the endless line of promontories along this peanut path, perhaps your bite now trudges along the rugged terrain much like the burdened Frodo did through Mordor, taking precious food into the mouth of an organic volcano, dormant since an eruption last week after a bout of heavy drinking, to be dissolved in the bowels of Mt. You.

But I come with news of relief for your teeth, dear reader.  Simply spin your Snickers bar one hundred and eighty degrees along its vertical axis. Now upside down, you are faced with zig-zag lines of triangular treads that have been imprinted on the bar’s bottom side. It seems as if one column of triangles points away from you, across the candy: that is the direction your mouth should travel. But another column of triangles seems to point in your direction, towards your mouth: that is the direction the candy should travel. Either way, today you begin an exciting, yet relaxing, new journey.

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