I hate Barnes and Noble so much that I can’t fathom the task of accurately capturing all of my grievances in a single afternoon, in a single internet rant. Suffice it to say, that place is a Bohemian shit barn that is some kind of unholy cybernetic commercial abomination blending the mall, a toy store, a screaming kids gallery, and the loudest brain cauterizing pop music imaginable. I can’t enjoy a book with that bellowing, screechy horse named Adele screaming in my ear about her endless ocean of nonsensical emotions. Between that one time I visited B&N in 2011 and this afternoon, they have precisely the same sad collection of alt-rock hipster downer trash they always have. Over 1 million books have been published in that time, and maybe there were a dozen new titles featured in the last five years. I hope that stupid, ugly, burnt-coffee intellectual vacuum goes out of business as soon as possible so I can go to the corporate funeral and toss a waterballoon filled with my pee at what will undoubtedly be a beige, wood-paneled headstone next to a CD kiosk.
Bookstores should contain 90% books, 8% coffee, 2% quiet patrons, and be cozy as fuck. Barnes and Noble is the Justin Bieber of bookstores and if necessary I will implement a schedule of evil voodoo chants calling upon the dark, wild gods of the underworld to bring about their demise.
I am Magnus Von Black and I yelled this message at my keyboard so loudly that it appeared on the screen.