Can’t get enough Rick and Morty in your life? You’re not alone. Well, you probably are alone, and you’ll definitely die alone, but maybe you won’t feeCan’t get enough Rick and Morty in your life? You’re not alone. Well, you probably are alone, and you’ll definitely die alone, but maybe you won’t feel so lonely with your boon companions Rick and Morty there by your side. Perhaps they’ll distract you from the realization that your meager existence is meaningless, in the grand scheme of things. That you’re nothing more than a bag of meat, sitting on a rock in outer space, completely insignificant in the face of the cosmos. That there’s no escaping the crippling, soul-crushing loneliness that’s slowly devouring you.
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But hey, if you do feel compelled to cling to even the most fleeting moments of joy in your otherwise endless cycle of torment and pain, check out this comic—it’s a nice companion piece to the show!
To avoid any continuity issues with the TV series and fully exploit their artist license the creators of the comic cleverly chose to follow a Rick and Morty from a parallel universe. Although from what I’ve read, they have since abandoned that not so clever strategy, instead choosing to portray the “off-screen adventures” of the original Rick and Morty.
Even though this volume followed an alternate version of the duo, the dialogue felt spot-on. So it was virtually impossible to read this without hearing all the character voices in my head—which is one neat trick if you ask me. That fact alone made it worthwhile, even when some of their adventures were lackluster.
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My biggest complaint is that they tried to cram too many stories into a rather slim package, so the storytelling often felt rushed. Hell, half of the issues even had a tiny four-page Summer or Beth adventure squeezed in at the end. I would have much preferred a single story arc, stretched over the entire volume, to all those snippets, but maybe that’s just me. ...more
In Which We Learn about “The Gates” and the Subjective Nature of Humor, None of Which Is Entirely Helpful
The Gates opens with Samuel Johnson, an eleveIn Which We Learn about “The Gates” and the Subjective Nature of Humor, None of Which Is Entirely Helpful
The Gates opens with Samuel Johnson, an eleven-year-old boy from Biddlecombe, England, also looking to get a jump on the season by trick-or-treating, with his beloved dachshund, Boswell, a full three days early. His initiative, however, is met with disbelief and scorn by a rather rude chap at 666 Crowley Road, and, while he regroups in the alley behind the grump’s house to think up other ways to avoid his babysitter,¹ Samuel comes to witness some strange goings-on in the basement.
In a foolhardy attempt to liven up their lives, the Abernathys and another couple have chosen an extremely unfortunate time to dabble in the occult. Because at the same moment that they’re attempting to summon a demon, a couple of scientists at CERN notice a problem with the Large Hadron Collider when –
“A bit just whizzed off,” said Ed. “And it went beep.” “A bit? said Victor. “It’s not a bicycle. Bits don’t just whiz off.” “Right then,” said Ed, looking miffed. “A particle of some kind appears to have disengaged itself from the whole and exited the accelerator. Is that better?” “You mean that a bit just whizzed off?” said Victor, thinking, who said we Germans don’t have a sense of humor?
The two events intertwine, on a cosmic level, to inadvertently open a portal to another dimension – Hell! ...more
I am not a writer. Nor do I have any aspirations of one day becoming one. I could take it a step further by revealing that, thro★★★☆☆½
Confession Time:
I am not a writer. Nor do I have any aspirations of one day becoming one. I could take it a step further by revealing that, throughout school, English was one of, if not my least favorite subject. Part of my hatred stemmed from the reading curriculum. I’d like to give a proper tongue-lashing to the moron(s) responsible for choosing such books as Moby Dick, The Scarlet Letter, A Tale of Two Cities, The Grapes of Wrath, The Odyssey, and oh so much Shakespeare. All great literature to be sure, but are any of these books catered toward young children or teenagers? What idiot decided that kids would enjoy so much classical literature? Was there nothing to be gleaned from a more modern tale? I, personally, have gained a much broader understanding and respect for all of the stuffy old classics that I’ve read as an adult, than any I ever read as a child. Looking back, it amazes me that I ever became a reader with such an inauspicious beginning.
As a kid, reading used to be such a chore, a punishment even. And if reading classics wasn’t bad enough, the next thing you knew your teachers wanted you to discuss what you had read. Write a book report or the dreaded term paper. Pure torture, I tell ya. I’ve always been more of a science guy. Think Bill Nye, but lacking the nerd cred, warehouse full of money, or the hordes of female fans (he’s gotta be fighting ’em off with a stick, right?). The point being, that writing was never my forte, so it’s amazing that I now freely choose to dabble in writing a bit during my spare time. But please forgive me, if it takes weeks or longer for me to churn out a review, or if said review is lacking any pertinent information (case in point) or deep insight.
Synopsis:
When two out of work and blackballed NYC line cooks are given an opportunity to work for a legendary, James Beard Award winning chef, it all seems too good to be true. Especially considering his latest Michelin starred restaurant closed under mysterious circumstances, and said chef was rumored to be dead. Learning the gig is to take place in New Jersey curbs their enthusiasm somewhat, but they’re just desperate enough to leap at the opportunity. Come tomorrow, that’s a decision they may likely regret.
Sin du Jour is a high-end catering company with, strangely, but a single client: Uncle Sam. The secret branch of the government they work for is responsible for preventing the public from discovering the true nature of the world, and the terrifying creatures which hide in plain sight. This branch functions like a diplomatic agency keeping the peace between all manner of horrors. Catering meetings or peace summits, and dealing with those exotic ingredients preferred by Uncle Sam’s exclusive clientele is where Sin du Jour comes in.
However, the main course requested for this particular event is extremely off-putting. So much so, that the chefs debate whether or not it would be morally reprehensible to even serve such a dish. Failing to do so could lead to some major repercussions, but there just might be a way to pull it off . . .
Conclusion:
This tasty little morsel is a far cry from those stuffy classics I read in school. Although it touches on some dark themes throughout, it does so with a lighthearted, comical approach. Throw in some truly absurd scenes, and a colorful cast of characters—such as a guy who carries around a portable defibrillator because he can’t seem to stop dying—and you know you’re in for a treat.
I’m no expert in Urban Fantasy, but this one may have crossed that arbitrary line into the realm of Bizarro fiction. This first installment of a planned seven novella series has the potential to be a nice palate cleanser, after a book slump, just don’t expect anything more than a light appetizer.
“Everyone else sees a legion of undead clowns worshipping a giant chicken, right?” Moon asks. “Yes.” “Yeah.” Hara nods. Moon is visibly relieved. “Okay, good.”
Yep, it’s that kind of story! Bon appétit. ;)...more
Toward the tail end of June, I found myself with a rare gap in my reading schedule. So I began to scroll through my handy-dandy TBR looking for somethToward the tail end of June, I found myself with a rare gap in my reading schedule. So I began to scroll through my handy-dandy TBR looking for something fun, and this book seemed to fit the bill nicely. I don’t recall exactly how this initially found its way onto that mountainous pile, but I can totally blame a couple of the usual suspect for bringing it back onto my radar.
The premise here is fairly straightforward - after a repo job goes sideways, a couple of buddies set off on a road trip through the Deep South in an attempt to recover a stolen mint-condition calypso coral ’69 Ranchero. Comedic escapades ensue.
The problem I ran into was that comedy, for me at least, dried up rather quickly. I’ve seen this redneck buddy spiel done a few time before. The obvious comparison would be to Lansdale’s Hap and Leonard series, or his even better Thicket one-off (can’t wait for the movie!). However, the difference between those Lansdale works and this book is rather striking. Lansdale excels at characterization. Hap and Leonard or Shorty and Eustace (take your pick) feel like fully fleshed out, relatable characters, with a ton of heart. Even when the adventure side of things is lacking, you’re still more than willing to tag along for the ride with such compelling leads. Lansdale also has a great ear for dialogue, which is often a hilarious back and forth where the barbs and insults fly. By the end of those stories, those boys feel like a couple of old friends. Whereas here, our intrepid narrator was so memorable that I couldn’t even recall his name a week later. He does almost all of the talking while his buddy Desmond sits in silence, or grunts out a few responses every now and again. Desmond can’t be bothered to get too involved when his hunger is overwhelming, and his desire to stuff his fat face with more of those Sonic Coney Islands is all-encompassing.
The Sonic is brought up so often throughout the story you’d swear they gotta be lacing those coneys with crack cocaine. How anyone could be that mesmerized by a fucking hotdog is beyond the grasp of my understanding. Some of Desmond’s other endearing (?) traits, besides being the muscle in the outfit, are his numerous phobias—from doctors, needles, and medicine, to his irrational fear of nearly the entire natural world. Snakes and gators and spiders I get, but trees and bayous and harmless little old dogs? That’s nuts. He also displays some remarkable driving skills, as he drifts his tiny Geo all over the road, thumping over all the roadkill for no apparent reason.
This Desmond is such a bland character that they’re forced to pick up a few frenemies along the way to liven things up. These are essentially only slight variations of the exact same character. Dimwitted, shiftless, “Delta crackers” who carry some piece of the puzzle our boys need to track down that car. All of whom are roughed up and threatened, then somehow coerced into tagging along for the ride. Each one evolves from a bitter enemy to a helpful crew member in the blink of an eye, which doesn’t make a lick of sense. But then, neither does the contrived side plot concerning the “muscle-headed cracker cop.” All of these shiftless morons have the mentality of little kids, as they constantly bicker and fight until whatshisname slaps the shit out of ’em and/or hollers to STFU!
There’s just something completely off about this story. Even the cover is wrong—there’s no mystery here. The narrative shifts are a bit jarring, from the occasional masterful literary phrasing to this simplistic writing, which labels people as cracker fools or swamp trash. A Caucasian so often tossing around the term “cracker” seems strange to me. I could be off-base, but it sounds more like someone aping the lingo, than actually hip to it.
In summary: If you’d care to spend some time with a couple of no-account repo men, as they journey from Sonic to Sonic out on the back roads of Mississippi; traveling across trash strewn landscapes filled with rundown, dilapidated buildings, abandoned downtowns, low-income housing, trailer parks, and meth dens all rife with domestic squalor; encountering shiftless idiots, swamp trash louts, wannabe gangsters, meth heads, crooked cops, and porch shitting toddlers (?); in their quest to reacquire that oh so sweet, mint-condition calypso coral ’69 Ranchero then, by all means, delve in.
As for me, I’ll call a spade a spade. No matter how much this wants to be another Hap and Leonard, it pales in comparison. This is Dude Lit, plain and simple. For all those people who find the WWE storylines too hard to follow, you’re in luck!
This book was highly entertaining, much more than I had anticipated. I never know what to expect, when picking up one of the classics, and I knew nextThis book was highly entertaining, much more than I had anticipated. I never know what to expect, when picking up one of the classics, and I knew next to nothing of this one. I didn’t bother to read the synopsis, and I’ve learned the hard way to never, ever read the introduction prior to the story. Especially on these older works, where it’s common practice to spoil major plot points assuming everyone already knows the story. That’s so annoying.
Anyhow, going into this story with fresh eyes was probably beneficial. For example, I’ve noticed many people have shelved this as horror, and although I’d imagine it may have been quite shocking to those Victorian readers, to the modern reader it really is quite tame. Even the Reign of Terror was fairly light-hearted. To me, the story read more like a great farce, with The Invisible Man bumbling his way from one disaster to the next. So, if I was expecting a horror story, I’m sure I would have been disappointed.
The Invisible Man is basically a story about a man who loses his humanity. Initially, Griffin assumed invisibly would be a great advantage, but he learned rather quickly what a horrible burden it can become, especially troubling during those late winter months.
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Oh but for some invisible shoes! [image]
Mr. Wells did an admirable job of laying out all the disadvantages, many of which I hadn’t considered. The longer Griffin remained invisible, the more it began to wear on his psyche. Since he was an asshole with a superiority complex long before his little experiment, the end result could only ever be a complete disaster. The more he began to lose touch with humanity, the deeper he spiraled into madness.
The pseudo-science was well thought out, and several basic concepts were accurately described. There were discussions of light refraction, the physical properties of materials, and even some minor physics. And, except a few short sections where Wells dropped into a nearly incomprehensible rural dialect, the language was easily approachable—which is always a big concern with classics.
So, in summary, if you approach this book expecting a horror story, you’re bound to be a little disappointed, but if you go in with an open mind, I bet you’ll enjoy the ride. Sure, Griffin was an asshole with a superiority complex, but those townsfolk were a bunch of nosey morons in need of a good braining!
It'll be quite the challenge to find a nit to pick with this one. Let's see if I'm up to it. RTC?It'll be quite the challenge to find a nit to pick with this one. Let's see if I'm up to it. RTC?...more
Here I am again, the voice of reason, fighting the good fight against a tidal wave of praise and support, in a heroic effort to save you from wasting Here I am again, the voice of reason, fighting the good fight against a tidal wave of praise and support, in a heroic effort to save you from wasting your precious time and losing your sanity on this dreck. You’re welcome. But I know what you’re thinking, “This is the guy that hates everything, right? How can I possibly trust his opinion?” Well, no worries, friendo, because I’m about to break it down for you.
However, if you’re a teenager or you still have the mentality of a sex-crazed, mouthy adolescent, then, by all means, delve in. Feel free to ignore this old man’s rant because I’ll readily admit that I’m just too old for this shit. I must be a senile old fool . . . cause obvi this book is amazeballs. Winger is like totes adorbs, yo.
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However, I had a slightly different reaction to the book:
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The story follows Ryan Dean West—a teenager struggling through a rough patch in life—navigating his way through the everyday obstacles and challenges of being a pathetic-fourteen-year-old-skinny-ass-fucking-loser-with-no-social-skills. Oh yeah, he likes to hyphenate everything, by the way.
Here are a few facts to help put his attitude in perspective:
Fact #1, he’s enrolled in an uber-elite boarding school in the Pacific Northwest where things like charting a private plane to fly home over the weekend is a common occurrence. Fact #2, Ryan Dean is a wiz in the classroom and has already skipped a couple of grades. Fact #3, he’s the starting Winger for the varsity rugby squad. Fact #4, he’s so adorable all the girls just want to eat him up.
Now here’s a dilemma, with the proverbial pick of the litter, who should he choose as a girlfriend? His best friend, Annie, or should he try to sweet-talk his roommate’s girlfriend instead? Hmm, tough call, Ryan Dean, that’s a real Sophie’s Choice, buddy. #firstworldproblems
The story was crafted in a lighthearted style but far too often the humor fell flat. Take, for instance, the scene where Winger was bullied into a late-night poker match. It’s a high-stakes affair because if they’re caught gambling they’ll be expelled. Wow, seriously? During the match, he’s pressured into drinking his first beer, so naturally he’s wasted after a single beer. Sure, why not. Then, since he’s the first one knocked out of the match he’ll have to face the consequences. Previous consequences included things like skinny dipping in the lake or running across the football field in boxer shorts. Ooh, scary. So, what do you suppose they dared poor Ryan Dean to do? Go downstairs to the vacant girls’ dormitory and pee in their bathroom. Wait, what? That’s it?
And therein lay the problem. The story was so vapid—a nothing burger with no stakes—that I had trouble figuring out the point. *Shakes Magic 8 Ball* “Unclear, ask again later.”
❅Winger’s roommate is a bully, or is he? ❅You’re so beautiful, Annie. Stop it, Ryan Dean, let’s just be friends. ❅Insert a love triangle for intrigue. ❅Toss in a few amusing pratfalls.
The rugby matches could have been a nice place to inject a little life into the story, but alas no. All of the games were merely scrimmages, so they were glossed over entirely. The bus rides to and from the scrimmages were more entertaining than the events themselves. For a book on rugby, there was so little discussion of the sport itself that I still don’t even understand much of its rules.
Look, every story doesn’t need to be a mystery, thriller, or global conspiracy to hold my attention, but, for God’s sake, could you please have some level of intrigue? You know, something that I can sink my dentures into. Something other than this teen angst bullshit!
And stop with the nonsense that I’ve simply outgrown young adult stories because I still loved Harry Potter—the sense of wonder was awe-inspiring, the stakes were sky-high—and I thought Half a King was a terrific action-adventure, chock-full of clever twists and turns, betrayals and revenge, and the amount of gore I encountered while reading The Troop turned my stomach to such a degree that I couldn’t reach for the brain bleach fast enough! So, no, I’m not too old for young adult stories, as long as they give me something, but Winger just left me cold.
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Well, at least the writing felt authentic. That is to say, it appeared to be written by an eighth-grader, with all of the crude language and ideas you’d expect. Smith nailed the childlike voice, but oddly enough, the few adults that appeared in the story sounded exactly the same.
Maybe the best way to describe the book is that it felt like a mashup of I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell and Looking for Alaska—two books that I absolutely despised. So, needless to say, this book didn’t work for me on any level.
Lastly, the way in which the author used a gay character arc (view spoiler)[as a plot device to instill some much-needed growth and maturity in Ryan Dean was deplorable. This occurred in the final few pages of the book. So for 99% of the story, Ryan Dean acted like a complete jackass—incessantly whining about what a pathetic loser he was—then tragedy strikes and boom - he’s a new man. (hide spoiler)]
I’ll leave you with a verse from MCA (RIP) that succinctly encapsulated my reading experience:
Pass me the scalpel, I’ll make an incision I’ll cut off the part of your brain that does the bitching Put it in formaldehyde and put it on the shelf And you can show it to your friends and say that’s my old self
Here's the follow up to the hugely popular Go the Fuck to Sleep, or what I like to call the Hangover II of audio books. What made the first installmenHere's the follow up to the hugely popular Go the Fuck to Sleep, or what I like to call the Hangover II of audio books. What made the first installments so funny was the fact that they were original. This one, much like that uninspired movie, simply rehashes the same old script, same old jokes. Hey, let’s just slap a new location (problem) on it, and call it good.
Granted, Sam Jackson's reading did add quite a bit to the first book. I mean just the thought of Mr. Mother Fucker himself reading to a child made it quite hilarious in and of itself. Here though, I had to listened to Stephen Fry. Would Bryan Cranston’s version have been funnier? Yes, I'm sure it would. How much though, who can say?
Here's some suggestions for the next several installments. Put Down that Fucking Phone. Fucking do Your Homework. Clean Your Fucking Room. Take This Fucking Medicine. Stop Hitting Your Fucking Brother.
Let’s have Jerry Seinfeld & Bill Cosby reading. Oh my goodness, two clean comics reading dirty? Hilarious! Instant classics. We’ll make a fortune! ...more
With all of those Breaking Bad/Weeds comparisons in Kemper’s most excellent review, I had rather high hopes for this one. And that opening act did litWith all of those Breaking Bad/Weeds comparisons in Kemper’s most excellent review, I had rather high hopes for this one. And that opening act did little to dissuade my enthusiasm.
“Here they are again—the bent boys, baked and buzzed boys, wasted, red-eyed, dry-mouth high boys, coursing narrow bright aisles hunting food as fried as they are, twitchy hands, wadding bills they spill on the counter, so pleased and so proud, as if they’re the very inventors of stoned.”
And here he is, Matt, your stereotypical, white, middle-aged douchebag waiting in line at the 7/11 after midnight, with the milk for his kid’s cereal that he’d forgotten to pick up earlier. Sleep has eluded him once again, what with the worry of financial ruin hanging over his head.
He’s an out-of-work newspaperman, with an overdue mortgage, a failing marriage, and a live-in father that’s slowly slipping into dementia. The internet has all but destroyed the newspaper industry, and the economy’s in the toilet. He can’t seem to catch a break.
“Nice slippers, yo,” one of the stoners comments, with a nod towards Matt, as he exits the store.
Here’s a twentysomething, white, tattooed hoodlum, with saggy pants and long hair, hitting the pipe right out in the open.
“Wanna hit?”
Matt waves him off and heads towards his car. Hell, he hasn’t smoked weed since college, nearly fifteen years ago now. Reminiscing over the good old days, making his way across the parking lot, he stops short. Hesitates at the car door. Later, he could say whether it was the fond memories, the seductive smell, or the fact that his life is crumbling to ashes, but, whatever the reason, he agrees to give the guys a lift to a party.
“Damn!” Matt suppresses a cough. Nose runs. Eyes burn. Someone is composting leaves in his throat. Scraping his lungs with a shovel. “Wow.”
“Good huh?” ask Jamie.
Matt hacks, “Not bad.”
“Shit’s designer. Like thee hunnerd an ounce,” Skeet says.
And with that, the wheels begin to turn. Matt thinks about how weak the weed in college was compared to these guys’ stuff. What would his grown-up friends think of this designer shit? How many would want a taste? Could this be the answer that he’s been searching for? The key to his salvation? If not, he could still make some quick cash. Maybe enough to get his head above water.
Hours later, stoned out of his gourd, back from another trip to the 7/11 for munchies, Matt returns home with a big smile. “Because as fucked as the world is, as grim as the future surely seems to be, as grim as it revealed itself to be for his mother as she lay dying of the tumor that kills us all, there is a truth he cannot deny, a thing no creditor can take; even as his doomed boys stir in the cold unknowing of predawn sleep, even as the very life leaches out of him, soaks into the berber, into the cracks of his arid grave, he must grudgingly admit—that was one great goddamn burrito.”
Ha! Great opening chapter, with an excellent, even poetic conclusion. However, the problem is that the story continues, and the cold, hard reality sets in. What began as a hilarious romp thru 7/11 and stonerville quickly devolves into a monotonous slog through the depressing loss of everything around him and a crushing, downward spiral of self-pity.
Conversations with his dad are repeated ad nauseam, due to his dad’s debilitating dementia. Matt becomes less and less amusing, as he rehashes the same old tired dad jokes. There’s virtually no character development, especially from his wife, who’s nothing more than a cardboard cutout. But the biggest problem, in my opinion, is that there’s no redemptive arc to the story—nothing to counter all the depression—simply a final, grueling, reality check.
I don’t know if that’s your idea of a good time, but not me! Go cry into your pillow, Matt. I don’t need 250 pages to wallow in your misery. You can’t even get drug dealing right! Hell, if you ever made it into an episode of Breaking Bad, you’d be killed off in the first five minutes for comic relief! What a chump!
My advice—to anyone foolish enough to consider it anything other than misleading—is to do yourself a favor, read the first chapter then chuck the rest. That way you’d maybe consider it simply a funny short story....more
“There is something about the desert that pisses everything off.
It could be the heat. Or the barren landscape. Or the stark desolation. It doesn’t r“There is something about the desert that pisses everything off.
It could be the heat. Or the barren landscape. Or the stark desolation. It doesn’t really matter the why. The fact is the desert brings out the desperate worst in a thing. In an environment where nothing is meant to survive, life seethes.”
Quite the opening, to a solid, debut novel, that defies conventional genres. Is it a crime novel, a coming of age story, a comedy, hick lit, or possibly all of the above? The book’s cover calls it a fiasco. Perhaps that’s the best description. Because what starts off as a fairly simple but odd request, by a dying father, quickly leads to a whole mess of trouble.
Our story takes place in the Imperial Valley, a poverty stricken, border region of California, Arizona, and Mexico.
Jimmy Veeder wants out. For the past 12 years he’s succeeded. Traveling from town to town, taking any dead end job, in order to see more of the world, than what the Valley has to offer. But now he’s been called home with news of his father’s illness.
While he’s prepared to spend the final days, with his dad, joking and reminiscing, his old man has other plans. The big ask: find a Mexican prostitute named Yolanda, and bring her back to him.
Jimmy’s not one to argue with a dying man’s last request, so he enlists the help of his buddy Bobby, and a former neighbor, turned Mexican gangster Tomás. Their quest to find Yolanda leads them across the border into Mexico. Comedic mishaps and brutal violence ensue.
This search unravels other mysteries. And what Jimmy learns of his father, calls into question where he truly belongs, and what kind of man he wants to be.
The story’s filled with many memorable, if off-color, lines such as this conversation Jimmy has with his dad's friend. Who explains that back in his day, “going to a Mexican hooker wasn't considered cheating. You wouldn't tell your wife, of course, but you never felt guilty neither. Used to joke, call it 'a side of beans.' You know, 'Let’s go down to Mexicali, grab a few beers and a side of beans.'”
While there really are no major plot twists, and most mysteries are easily solved, the story is still pretty enjoyable, and most of the characters are well drawn.
Turns out I really had nothing to worry about. It looks as if Johnny Shaw will get this 4 star rating the old fashion way, he’ll earn it! ...more
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