What Must Be the Strangest Eldest Review Ever

by Odclay

Some books are like penises.

Sure, the really big ones are quite impressive. You want to be seen with a massive book. It's almost a sign of greatness--ohmigod, look at the size of his... But while great length is impressive, it's not always the size that matters. Don't listen to what those magazines say--Yoda said it best. Size matters not. It's not how much you got, honey, it's whatcha do with it, said the whore to the bashful sailor.

So it's not always the big fuckers that make the best love. You could have the biggest penis--er, book--in the world right there in front of you, and your lover, the author, can't do a damn thing with it. Or it's a wee little novel and ohmigod, what a ride! Oh! Oh! That was so good! So fucking good! On the other hand, the author's got some wee little book right there and he seems all bashful and well, that was disappointing, while someone else is melting because this guy with a seven-hundred-pager knew what he was doing. Ohohohohoh...yes....

You get the picture.

Eldest, by Christopher Paolini, is a big cock. It looks rather impressive, too. But half the time, Chris can't get it up, and it sits there all floppy and disappointing. And when he manages to get a stiffy, he runs around all happy-like because he's got a big dick, and he keeps bumping into the furniture. And eventually he goes limp again before he can make his awkward love, but he doesn't notice. He has a big penis. He has a big cock. And he thinks he's pretty good.

He's not.

I lost interest long before I finished the book. I was barely turned on to begin with. Just felt like having a one-night stand, is all, and I heard he had a nice cock.

I've had better lovers.