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246 pages of David Lynch and Adult Swim on acid. Your brain will vow revenge against you.
Vulgarity For the Masses is a bizarro-horror anthology novel featuring classic tales of a whale mating with a chainsaw, an apocalyptic trial in district court, a surreal bank robbery gone wrong with a drug debt to Santa Claus, aristocratic animals sacrificing themselves against the demonic plague sinking Great Britain, a young man remembering his abusive father before he reincarnated as his infected hemmorrhoid, an ethnic cleansing demon haunting the mountains of Tennessee throughout the eras, a Bible Version of the Three Little Pigs and an academic/demonic conspiracy so surreal even I don't know what the heck is going on there.
I wrote this novel purely because I could. I wanted to see what I could truly come up with, without pressure, without limitations, without having to rely on tired tropes and cliches to build a story, I wanted to write something purely original and unique that fights for the readers' attentions from the first paragraph onto every paragraph thereof. This book is highly vulgar and not recommended for everyone. But if you love Adult Swim, David Lynch, David Cronenberg, John Carpenter and Monty Python as I do, you're thoroughly enjoy watching me surgically remove pieces of each one of them from my van behind a liquor store and frankenstein them into this book.
It may take you days to read through it, perhaps weeks, perhaps you won't read it at all, but either way, you won't forget it.
"Meteo interrupted, "Your Honor, if you can even be called that, the police officer I assaulted was in fact me as I was impersonating a police officer, as I impersonated the prostitute, and then proceeded to impersonate both figures at the same time as we were sexually involved with the senior official; of whom I was also impersonating."
The courtroom groaned in unison and the judge continued on secretly hoping God would interfere and strike Meteo down." - The Whale Story
"Who are you to be so bold!?" screamed a frantic District Judge.
Meteo stamped his foot on the ground and looked the Judge square in the eye. "I am Meteo Xavier!" he shouted back. "I wear bold like a condom!"
- The Whale Story
"Alright, give me all the money in the bank! I gotta bomb in the briefcase and I'm not afraid to use it!" and he quickly undid all the snaps to the briefcase to showcase his weapon of choice.
The teller's eyes, cautious and scared, slowly made the motions to peer inside, and instead of crisis and further urination of her grandmother's antique pantaloons, her eyes went from terrified to that same look of bewilderment that pretty much everyone Skibby has ever met has given him.
"Sir, this isn't a bomb... it's a bong..."
Skibby looked inside and sure enough, it was old Chongo Bongo lying in the case; soaked in the residuum of brain-eating sludge and green leafy shit with dusty fingerprints adorning the proud neck of the bottle and threatening no one.
"Oh, hey, Chongo Bongo! I've looking for this!"
- On a Sunday Afternoon, This Happened.
"If my dad liked anything more than watching his grown, adult son get beaten and molested by his actions and having to use him as a cushion when we free-fell a mile in Colorado, it was music. He loved classic rock bands like Grand Funk Railroad, Sly and Family Stone, The Byrds, and The Allman Brothers - so one could probably imagine my surprise to his reaction when I said I wanted a bass for my birthday. Being closely informed on music terminology, I thought that would've been enough to reasonably imply to him I wanted to own a bass guitar.
Instead, he came home that day with a fish. A fish. A fish some 25 in. long and weighing 6.4 lbs. I explained to him that the bass I was looking for is electric, plugs into an amp, and plays music.
Rather than get me a guitar, I watched in horror as he gutted the poor living creature, throwing bones into my eyes and raw meat up my nose, ran an electric current through him, stuck a 3 ft. fret board up its *** and plugged him into an amp."
- The Wisdom of My Father
"He walked, entranced, through the woods until he came to a rusted box of a shack that was smeared with blood, chains and a filth only a human corpse could make; staining a spot in the accursed wood. Inside were the slave's quarters and on each bed was a glowing silhouette, smiling the same smile with eyes glowing the dark.
"Do you understand?" queried a voice from the darkness. The head of Abraham Lincoln popped out of the shadows attached to its rubbery tube of a neck, and snaked around the silent, shaking Garrett. "We simply wish that you understand the gravity of your atrociously arrant sin; you and everyone like you."
- The White Screamer