David Sedaris

Father and daughter, brother and sister, mother and son.

After exhausting every possible combination, they widened their circle to include horny sea captains and door-to-door knife salesmen.

Yes, these people were naughty, but at the age of 13, I couldn't help but admire their infectious energy and spirited enjoyment of life.

The first few times I read the book, I came away shocked, not by the character's behavior, but by the innumerable typos.

Had nobody bothered to proofread this book before sending it to print?

In the opening chapter, the daughter is caught fondling her brother's kek in the dining room.

On page 33, the son has sex with his mother, who, we are told, possesses a fond power of totz.

I showed the book to my sister Lisa, who tore it from my hand, saying, Let me hold on to this for a while.

She and I often swapped babysitting jobs and considered ourselves fairly well-read in the field of literary pornography.

Look in the parents' bedroom beneath the sweaters in the second drawer of the white dresser, she'd say.

We'd each read the story of O and the collected writings of the Marquis de Sade, with one eye on the front door, fearful that the homeowners might walk in and torture us with barbed whips and hot oils.

We know you, our looks would say as the parents checked on their sleeping children.

We know all about you.

The book went from Lisa to our 11-year-old sister Gretchen, who interpreted it as a startling nonfiction expose on the American middle class.

I'm pretty sure this exact same thing is going on right here in North Hills, she whispered, tucking the book beneath the artificial grass of her Easter basket.

Take the Sherman family, for example.

Just last week, I saw Heidi sticking her hands down Steve Jr.

's pants.

The guy has two broken arms, I said.

She was probably just tucking in his shirt.