Bronson Reads War and Peace

On my last birthday, I treated myself to a bottle of Wild Turkey and the 1383-page omnibus War and Peace, and, if you know Bronson, it was not necessarily a lopsided race as to which would be finished first. Assuredly, both would be preyed upon like jackals to an ibex. However, last night I found the Wild Turkey bottle in my wine-less wine rack, and burned my mouth and stomach on the last remaining drops, thinking of its purchase partner holding open my bathroom door. I despaired: I was wrong that booze and Tolstoy could be consumed in equal amounts.

So now I embark on a journey of redemption, the literary monster open in my lap. I need your unending support to help me flip the page and not cannonball this other Wild Turkey bottle to my right so hastily again. For your sake, I will update you every hundred pages or so about the dynamic human entanglements of 19th Century Russia.

It will be an enriching experience for us all. Together we will slay Napolean, fall in love, rise to wealth and prominence, and dance so elegantly in beautiful chadeliered ballrooms, you in a poof gown and me in a tight-collared suit of an aristocrat. Because, as they say, War and Peace contains all of life, and as far as my life goes, I have only yet begun. Tolstoy, show me the grandeur.