The local author was ready to skewer the avatar of goodness not only for his literary dalliance, but for some of his shitty movies like The Burbs, You’ve Got Mail, and perhaps the dumbest movie ever made, Forrest Gump, Sorry—in real life guys like Forrest Gump don’t become All-Americans, win the Medal of Honor or become the premiere shrimpermen in the Southeast United States. They ride the short bus, work minimum wage jobs and are endlessly tormented by middle management assholes.

On a personal note, Kane, the 1.5 millionth ranked most popular Amazon author, was also going to point out that for guys like him, life wasn’t like a box of chocolates with varying flavors. Every time he bit into a chocolate it was coconut—always fucking coconut—and he hates coconut.

But then reading the profile Chris Heath wrote promoting the novel in the June issue of The Atlantic Monthly he was taken in by Hanks’ curiosity, earnestness, vulnerability and of course, his charm. The novel seemed kind of interesting as well. Further, he started to recall all those great movies—Big, Saving Private Ryan, Road To Perdition and Bridge of Spies to name just a few.

If that wasn’t enough, Kane then came across an enchanting YouTube clip of Hanks snapping selfies with a random wedding party he happened upon while jogging in Central Park, which cemented his place as the uncontested avatar of American goodness.

And as much as Kane wanted to hate Hanks for not staying in his lane and his endless good fortune, he concluded that it was impossible and he fucking hated that. 

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