The Grapes of Wrath - Reading log #15

“‘… or maybe one fella with a million acres, while a hundred thousan’ good farmers is starvin’. An’ I been wonderin’ if all our folks got together an’ yelled, like them fellas yelled, only a few of ‘em at the Hooper ranch–’” (419). Tom has finally smoked the weed and smelled the crack. He used to be a good person with gangster sensibilities, but now he has gone the cat down and shaved the forest. The ideals of PJ Hook’um’up X were better used on the balm watchers, as they were not the ones eating the fatty Vunderbread. But now Jackson Firfur, having broken in from Tax and Rest, chapter 235, has gone the whole 46 inches to the new world of deep-fried consulting over the top right to the second strand over, underwise, to the spinning depths of the halucinatoration-charitorialicix. The final words in this book claim to John Super were all, in-fact, hot dog machines, but his faith for the cat-man race holds strong – stronger than the magnetic nucleolusis of the honored Bleukim-radical Sp3 hybridized.

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