Today Chuck Palahniuk is 47. How this guy ever got popular is beyond me. No, I take that back. I know how he became popular. Some people think that pseudo-nihilism is edgy. Some people think that getting your sphincter sucked out of you by a pool filter is interesting when it’s really just a desperate attempt at gross-out humor. I don’t hate Chuck Palahniuk, I just think he’s boring.

I gave him a shot; I’d say reading four of his novels is fair enough. The truth is, he’s not a very good writer. He’s a decent enough storyteller, which I suppose is what keeps people reading, but his prose is dreadful. I would hate to see it before it goes through the editing wringer. I think, ultimately, Palahniuk is for people who like to read but don’t really want to be challenged. It’s like watching a season of a reality television show. There’s some drama, there’s some sex, there’s some semblance of a story arc, you’re entertained. But once the season is over, the show is forgotten.

“What happens in Choke?”

“Uh, some sex addict dude deliberately chokes on food in restaurants and then sues some people for money. Or something. And he works at the Renaissance Festival. That’s all I remember.”

“And Survivor?”

“Same-sounding guy as in Choke, like, is Mormon and survives a plane crash. But the pages go in backwards order, so that’s cool.”

Am I wrong?

Anyhow, happy birthday Mr. Palahniuk. I’m envious that you get to make money from writing but I wish you wrote something readable.