I've ignored the temptation for the last two months, but I finally succumbed this weekend. Like any proud "junkie," I desperately needed my final fix–no matter the outcome. With grim resolve, I uncovered the plastic bag hidden beneath a mountain of dress shoes, opened it and drained its contents dry. An hour later, when it really hit, I was left speechless. After 15 years of reading, I finally finished the "Dark Tower" saga.

Days later, I'm not sure if the greater significance lies in what I read or that I read. Once upon a time, long before cable television, videogames and the Internet dominated the pop-culture landscape, reading was the hip thing to do in college.

Call me crazy, but I've already spent thousands of dollars on books that were forgotten a week after the final exams. If I'm going to spend $25 or "half a videogame" on a hardcover novel, then it damn well ought to entertain me. But alas, they don't write 'em like they used to.

"Harry Potter" conspiracy theories aside (Ron Weasley is a dead man, and you all know it), it's been slim pickings for contemporary fiction fans. We read "The Da Vinci Code" to stay hip at the watercooler and chase it with a foreign novel we can't pronounce to stay hip at the coffeehouse.

While some people endure this literary binge-and-purge routine for the sake of intelligent conversation, I've always been a fan of the lowest common denominator. So, you've turned every page of "Ulysses"–big deal. I've viewed every sordid occurrence of VH1's "100 Metal Moments" and found inspiration therein. Truth is stranger–and more fascinating–than fiction, as anyone who saw Ozzy Osbourne snort a line of fire ants can attest.

The time has come for trash-culture connoisseurs to stand up and be counted. Yes, it's somewhat intimidating when your import-drinking buddies dissect Proustian minutiae, but fear not. Instead, hold high your noble can of Icehouse and inquire if Dutch Schaeffer of "Predator" could kick John Rambo's ass. Pity the fool who backs Rambo, for he is clearly beneath you. Dutch pulverized the Predator while Rambo capped a few corrupt cops–it's not even close.

Films have replaced books as the dominant medium for trash. In fact, certain directors such as Quentin Tarantino and Robert Rodriguez have built empires upon the late-night schlockfests of their youth. AMC and TCM are movie channels for people way smarter than us, so stick to the holy trinity of TBS, TNT and Comedy Central.

It's a little-known fact, but Jean-Claude Van Damme's soul was the deciding factor in 2000's historic AOL Time Warner merger. Turner Networks are divinely mandated to show at least three JCVD films a day, and their loss is our gain. From "Cyborg" to "Sudden Death," Van Damme's filmography is a trashy treasure trove of steroid-enhanced, action extravaganzas. Other channel stalwarts include Patrick "Pain Don't Hurt" Swayze as a badass bouncer in "Road House" and "Over the Top," Stallone's poignant ode to arm wrestling.

Best of all, sports knowledge is optional under this path to intellectual importance. People like a man who supports his team, but they loathe the stat-spouting toolshed who crunches every number except the phone digits of interested women. Pay attention during the playoffs, check the Drudge Report for the latest athlete arrests, and you'll be fine. If stuck, just say, "Man, that T.O. is having a hell of a season." Sports guys love T.O.

I suppose I should be embarrassed that the Butler Book Club includes two authors, but I'm not. The Harry Potter Chick and Stephen King write pretty damned good books, so if I recommend the "Dark Tower" series, then obviously that carries more weight than someone who, like, reads a lot. As you can see, I'm a busy man with important things on my mind.