The bone in me that's not angry is my funny bone. My funny bone chuckles (lightly rattles?) at the joke Brand's having on people like me. By which I mean serious and sensitive souls who think, or at one point thought, they had a Deep and Important book in them to write, one that would change the world, but who were ultimately motivated by childish vanity, an infantile cry for attention reducible to the sentiment, "But I have something to say too! Wither my booky wook? Wah, wah!"
We playground also-rans will likely never write our "booky wook," and if we do, it'll likely never get published; certainly not by a major publisher with major marketing dollars, willing to promote it like the masterpiece we're sure it is. But Russell Brand, English comedian, for whom authorship is a lark--his booky wook was written, published, and vaulted to the top of the bestseller list. That he published a Booky Wook 2 is the cherry on the pie being planted in our collective bespectacled, bearded baby-face. Touché, Mr. Brand. Touché.