This weirds me out on so many levels. It's like my opinion is teeter-tottering on the brink between a kiddie pool of perverse glee and a mudpit of vomiting disgust and all it will take is for a few of the details to sink in and drag the little mote of neuro-chemical reaction into one or the other so it can wallow.
I'm almost thinking you need to find another animal to desecrate. I'm remembering the pig that the guy was trying to shoot in his apartment and I'm not sure if it's just that pigs are that funny or if you're starting to develop a theme that could blossom into a group of short stories all its own, themed with pork gone awry.
The story, with it's jumps in time and place, makes it almost seem that it was generated at random, like you'd recorded a series of mumblings in your sleep and curses after dropping an engine block on your toe, then printed it out on bottlecaps and tossed them into the air, recording only the verses that caused passing nuns to shriek. But at the same time, it's so utterly twisted that there's no way that simple gravity could piece it together and still have the expectation that we'd trust it to hold us to the ground. I can't tell if it's madness, genius or an undiagnosed case of Tourette's syndrome. It's a brilliant verbal trainwreck and you can't look away, and it must have involved a caboose-load of buxom strippers, because you're not sure if you want to try.
While I'm sure I'm not alone and I'm sure you expect this sort of reaction, it scares me how much you fuck with my head, Ellis. Deeply.
I'm almost thinking you need to find another animal to desecrate. I'm remembering the pig that the guy was trying to shoot in his apartment and I'm not sure if it's just that pigs are that funny or if you're starting to develop a theme that could blossom into a group of short stories all its own, themed with pork gone awry.
The story, with it's jumps in time and place, makes it almost seem that it was generated at random, like you'd recorded a series of mumblings in your sleep and curses after dropping an engine block on your toe, then printed it out on bottlecaps and tossed them into the air, recording only the verses that caused passing nuns to shriek. But at the same time, it's so utterly twisted that there's no way that simple gravity could piece it together and still have the expectation that we'd trust it to hold us to the ground. I can't tell if it's madness, genius or an undiagnosed case of Tourette's syndrome. It's a brilliant verbal trainwreck and you can't look away, and it must have involved a caboose-load of buxom strippers, because you're not sure if you want to try.
While I'm sure I'm not alone and I'm sure you expect this sort of reaction, it scares me how much you fuck with my head, Ellis. Deeply.
Peace.
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I had a dream about having sex with a duck last week. I remember every graphic bit of it. Even the blackness of its warm, quivering podex.
-Sean
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