God, what a fucking wanker. A guy who regularly goes out of his way to proclaim how much of a waste of time reading and education are, imparting his wisdom with a "book". That's rich. Maybe it's time to create a new epithet for the scummy breed of no-talent celebridouches -- your Kanye, your Pee Diddly, your Spencer Fucking Pratt. People who need to be put on a transatlantic flight with only half the necessary fuel to get across the ocean.
But consider, if you will (and you might), the notion of this sort of vanity publication. Ordinarily, your illiterate celebritard would go the usual route and hire a ghost writer to pen a regular-length "autobiography", which of course Kanye has already done. Hell, even his late moms got in on that act, explaining to any who might inexplicably care what it was like raising a self-absorbed assclown.
Yet here this dickhole needs a ghost writer for a fifty-two page publication, barely qualifying for "manifesto" or "pamphlet" status, certatinly not a "book". And even with said ghost writer his attempts at profundity are ridden with fundamental grammatical errors. Even the Amazon product description is clunky.
"Found abundant"? Maybe found abundantly, or in abundance. Jesus Christ, even Who Moved My Cheese? had a fucking proofreader. Whether he knows it or not, Kanye really is being honest with his hapless audience, at least in the infamous one-page profundity excerpted above. Get used to being used indeed, Kanye fans, because every dollar you've ever put in Kanye's pocket might as well have gone to buying a Big Mac for a street person.
Which, when you really get down to it, is what Kanye West is -- a pimped-out panhandler, bamboozling millions of suckas out of their money, which they clearly didn't work nearly hard enough for. He can't write, can't sing, can't dance, can't act or would have done so by now just to see himself on a movie screen, and literally seems to have no marketable skill beyond self-promotion. I'm embarrassed for Paul McCartney for even allowing himself to be photographed sitting next to this fuckhead, but compared to Heather Mills, that's small potatoes.
Put it this way -- if everyone had the work ethic of Kanye West, if we all made careers out of fellating ourselves with autotune machines and beat-boxes and stale samples and called it a music career, dressed like slow-witted four-year-olds, and needed ghost writers to publish something that is the literary equivalent of a seventh-grade girl's diary, we would be unqualified for much beyond cleaning each other's gutters.
As always, that would explain a lot.