“Is it possible for you to be any more of an asshole?”

I’ve never really believed that there’s such thing as a rhetorical question, but this one, posed to me by a friend while we were browsing at our local Barnes & Noble, had me stumped. Should I answer it truthfully—Why, yes, there’s always room for more Jell-O—and risk the wrath of a woman insulted, or should I hang my head in mock shame and thank the bookstore gods that no one was within earshot of her question?

I opted for a third alternative: “I’m telling you, that’s a shitty book.”

“Don’t fucking cuss at me.”

I sighed and marvelled over the fact that, despite our platonic friendship, this was veering into the kind of dark wood that even Dante would stayed away from. Beatrice may have been his ultimate goal, but I’ve long suspected that she never really existed, or if she had, he fantasized about her from afar, never really understanding that goddesses have to stay firmly rooted in reality. Even Hera was a jealous bitch that few men would have taken the trouble to seduce. But was Jennifer more Scarlett O’Hara than Beatrice or Hera?

“I think it’ll be a good book.”

Now we come to heart of the argument: my inner book snob. She was cradling a paperback copy of Raymond Khoury’s The Last Templar in her hands, reading the endless blurbs comparing the book to that other occult blockbuster. My pleas in favor of Umberto Eco went ignored or, at best, were met with quizzical stares and dismissive grimaces. And then the final nail: I’d made some unamusing witticism to the effect that ignoring my opinion on the book was tantamount to heresy.

“All right. Your choice.” Did I really care? I suppose I did, if only because I wanted to steer her away from the worst book I read this year. I hid behind a sip of my over-priced cappucino and briefly wondered if I wanted to continue pissing on Khoury’s book, then decided I wasn’t in the mood to argue.

She swatted me gently with the novel. I flinched. “So I’m not as well-read as you are. Go easy on me. It’s only a book.” Her face brightened and I pictured a dimly-flashing lightbulb hovering over her head. “You could write a blog about this. Call it—I don’t know. You figure it out.” She sang a few bars of the Gorillaz’ “Feel Good Inc.” and dangled the car keys in front of my face. “Since you’re such a spoilsport, you get to drive.” She began walking away, her eyes fixed on the book in her hands.

I followed her and, giving in to temptation, whispered that single word that has both fascinated and frustrated millions of men the world over: “Women.”