It doesn’t pay to sound like a snob. At dinner Friday night I asked my friend, “What do you read?”

I yelled it because it was so noisy in the restaurant.  Yelling is one of my two volumes.

He’s a cynical, sharp fellow, and he said, “Nothing good. I read junk.”

“Like what?  What do you read?”

“Junk. Nothing. You know, like what you write.”

I write crime novels, and I hate my friend.