Edison’s writing style is a gonzo-type rush, filled with hilariously inventive descriptions of the various clodhoppers he’s known. There’s the woman who was “a combination of Big Foot and Foghorn Leghorn,” and the guy who was so anal that “even his hair looked alphabetized.” And high-quality nonsense like the porno publisher who’d run around barking things like “You call those tits, Mr. Ronson? Those tits are taking food out of the mouths of my children!”
Edison might never wind up on the masthead of a sunny Condé Nast publication — but why would he ever want to?
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