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Matt Dearborn reads The Krzyzewskiville Tales so you don't have to

Let's not beat around the bush-reading Aaron Dinin's The Krzyzewskiville Tales is one of the most painful experiences ever brought upon mankind. I mean kudos to the kid for getting a book deal but if you're fortunate enough not to have the brutal words of Dinin's debut novel grace your virgin eyes, let this be a warning.

The concept of the novel is a story about Krzyzewskiville, Duke's time-honored and ever-cherished tradition. In the exact style of Chaucer's Canterbury Tales. Read: EXACT style. And while it may have worked for the 14th century, it's not exactly A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius or for that matter, The Devil Wears Prada.

Not that it matters. When I first heard about the book, my first reaction was "Why?" But fear not, the answer is simple: Dinin wants your money. He wants to milk you because you feel some ridiculous affinity towards those cold, horrible nights spent in a tent. He's trying to exploit you and at the same time, exploit our alma mater. Do not fall into his trap.

But let's not get all Ann Coulter on the poor guy, and actually talk about the content of the book. In short, it is so horrendously boring that, if you even make it through the book's first 50 pages, it will leave you wondering why you were ever born. We kid, we kid. We actually do not.

The Krzyzewskiville Tales is probably the worst book written in the past decade. Apologies go to Pamela Anderson's Star.

Bottom line is it's not bad-good in the way that Ben Affleck's ability to stare off into the distance is treated as acting. It's not bad-palatable in the way that Ryan Cabrera is a Ashlee Simpson-moochin' scrub with weird hair.

It's just bad.