So, I’m video Tweeting at @thefayz.

“What the ____ is a video Tweet?” you ask.  To which I answer, “Hey, watch your ______ language.  Do you even know what ____ means?  It’s a very rude word.  You little ____!”

Well, it seems if you have Tweetie which is a Twitter Client (no, I don’t know what that means, but my 12 year-old does) you can post videos to Twitter.

It’s really easy.  You go up to the Tweetie tool bar, punch “New video Tweet” and then just talk to the camera.  Assuming you use a Mac.  If you’re on a Windows machine I assume there are nine more steps and at least three crashes involved.

So I’m now using this video tweet thing to read HUNGER, a few paragraphs a day.  As you know, HUNGER is longer than the Bible, (but not as violent and the language is cleaner,) so it may take me a while.  The three I’ve put up so far are from my back yard which is my office.  But I’m thinking of doing some from different locations. Maybe from a B&N or a Starbucks or a Borders.  Anywhere that has WiFi.

I’m also thinking of answering fan questions that way.  And that makes sense.

Here’s what doesn’t make sense:  I’m thinking of reviewing books by video tweet.  In fact, I’m thinking of reviewing books I sometimes have to read to my kids.  For example a book series that rhymes with Wearing Stained Pears.  Kind of rhymes with it, anyway.

But I’m thinking it could be a bad idea.  Because I don’t have anything good to say about Wearing Stained Pears.  I kind of hate Wearing Stained Pears.

As you may know, the books are the story of how Mama Be. . . um . . . Mama Pear sucks the joy out of life. Here’s every Wearing Stained Pears story:  Mama tromps around wearing a white polka-dotted blue mumu and a tragic little Martha Washington matching cap, and destroys pleasure wherever she finds it.  You know about antimatter?  Mama Pear is anitjoy.  She’s the Predator drone of fun:  when she sees it, by God she kills it.  Boom!  Were you relaxing?  Boom, Mama Pear will put an end to it.  Were you just blitzing out, chilling, having a pleasant day?  Look out, it’s Mama Pear, Queen Buzzkill.

Junk food?  TV?  Making messes?  Skipping church?   Brother Pear’s heroin habit?  Whatever small measure of joy the Pear family might squeeze out of their tree-bound, rustic existence, there’s Mama Pear in her frumpy fat-dress scolding and nagging.

Her two children, the imaginatively-named Brother Pear and Sister Pear — that’s right, she named her kids for their relationship to each other as though neither of them is entitled to a distinct identity outside the suffocating confines of their grim, repressed family — have to be constantly on watch against any display of enjoyment or they’ll draw their harpie mother like bees to honey.

She’s the shrew of bears.  I mean pears.  She’s the black hole of happiness.  I mean, good lord, woman, climb down off it from time to time.  Shut up and go buy yourself a dress from this century.  Maybe something not shaped like a bag of mulch, you tedious, genderless, sanctimonious, hypocritical, soul-sucking prig.

But see, that would be wrong to do as a video tweet.  Because no one should say those things about the Wearing Stained Pears books.  Because, you know, they teach all kinds of good lessons.

I understand that in the final book Papa Bear . . . I mean Pear . . .  finally gets his axe and comes into the treehouse yelling, “That’s the last time you. . . ”

But I have to stop myself.  I don’t want to spoil it for you!