But Onward Awkward, What's Dick Lit?

Well kids, I'm sure everyone knows what Chick Lit is. Actually, maybe those of you who (gasp) read Chick Lit aren't aware of this genre of literature, otherwise I hope you'd stop reading it. Chick Lit is the mainstream genre sweeping American Literature with titles like the Devil Wears Prada, Eat Pray Love, etc. etc. Anything with Sassy in the title qualifies. Sex in the City is the TV version of Chick Lit. If you're reading something that makes you giggle and want to buy a new handbag, it's Chick Lit. So then, you're probably wondering, thanks to the snarky headline above, what the hell Dick Lit is. But you're probably not a moron and can infer that Dick Lit is the male version of Chick Lit and it is (scarily) growing in popularity. Ever heard of Chris Martin? Check out his website here. He is at the foreground of this new literary (?) movement. Any male writer who focuses more on the "rippling waves" or the "sun-gilded hair" than the actual plot of the story at hand can be assuredly categorized into this genre. Take Chris Martin's new book, Where the River Ends. I happen to work at an independent bookstore (mockward) and they send you all this free shwag (like advanced reader copies, etc.). Well, this guy's book came in a bow-tied-box with a glued on notecard that read "This book will break your heart." Oh, it doesn't stop there. Inside this box, was his nauseously titled book, a pack of tissues (that so succinctly said, "Cry me a river? You will.") and an enlarged pseudo-'snap-shot' of the frat-tastic author (what are you supposed to do with this photo? put it on your dorm bulletin board? laminate it for tub-time? talk to it? pray to it?) Chris Martin has thus written a book who's sole purpose is to make the reader cry. Marketing genius or Dick Lit Connoisseur? I say the latter. This must be put to an end. It's already bad enough that women are starting to ruin literature with their shallow pedantic lives working at Barneys and trying to con Mr. Big into marrying the well-dressed, idiotic hags that they are, but men are now cashing in? Creepy emotional, God-loving men? Please. Please stop this. Or I'm afraid Dick Lit will stop us all, or at least make crying more accessible (and really, hasn't Death Cab achieved that?). And good God, crying is so awkward (SO AWKWARD!). When someone cries on the bus, like a blubbering idiot, over a book with a hand sifting sand through its appendages printed on the cover? Creeps. Kill Chris Martin with well-learned emotional apathy, indifference, and a solid cold heart. Fuck DickLit.