Not as hilarious as Header & Header 2 (which is an absolute masterpiece) but still some fucked up funny shit.Not as hilarious as Header & Header 2 (which is an absolute masterpiece) but still some fucked up funny shit....more
Well, fucking hell, this is dark. And a completely different beast compared to Dead Inside and Human-Shaped Fiends, the only two books I've read by thWell, fucking hell, this is dark. And a completely different beast compared to Dead Inside and Human-Shaped Fiends, the only two books I've read by this author. The...er...comic relief is limited to the mecha-hooker chapters, but I'm not going into details otherwise I'd be spoiling the whole thing. One thing for sure: this is a depressing story about the lack of silver linings in today's world or, shall we say, a tale about frail people being prone on exchanging something resembling a silver lining for an actual silver lining...and the logical ensuing tragedy. Right, you may want to refer to Debbie's review that's obviously going to be way better than mine, as you'd expect.
Ah, the delicate and fine humour in "Header 2"...Helton, Mick-Mack, and the other hillbilly in the family whose name I can't recall are a delight to bAh, the delicate and fine humour in "Header 2"...Helton, Mick-Mack, and the other hillbilly in the family whose name I can't recall are a delight to behold, and to listen to. I found myself reading aloud their exchanges and braying with laughter. The feud between the hillbillies and the mafia is a series of monumentally fucked up acts that had me in tears and grasping for air. Also, Melda and her...kitten. "Header 2" is even better than Three Little Pigs: The Pig, The House & Ouija Pig and The Bighead. And you want to trust me on this one, this is not a claim that can be made lightly. This shit deserves a PULITZER....more
Howdy ho, Mr. Morrison, we meet again, oi! "Human-Shaped Fiends" is a big FUBAR bowl of WRONG, a ride through a dusty landscape that's part splatterpuHowdy ho, Mr. Morrison, we meet again, oi! "Human-Shaped Fiends" is a big FUBAR bowl of WRONG, a ride through a dusty landscape that's part splatterpunk, part western, and all kinds of fucked up.
Morrison's got this meta thing going on that's overall neat, in that it doesn't make the book look stupid. It's like he took a page out of Bret Easton Ellis' "American Psycho" and cranked that shit up to outer space, making it fucking funny as fuck. Get this, at the jump, I was scratching my head over the BIPOC stuff, wondering if Morrison was pulling my leg or just plain out of his mind. But then it hit me, this son of a bitch is taking the piss out of everyone, me included. Yeah, bugger off, Morrison!
Now, let's talk about the really FUBAR bits: the rape scenes. Brutal & shocking shit, and they'll knock the wind right outta you. But Morrison's got a way of twisting the knife with a grin, turning what should be a gut-punch into a sick joke that'll have you laughing when you know you shouldn't (Meta bits again).
Oh, btw, I've been buddy-reading this ordure with Debbie Y, and y'know, apart from a couple of books, it's been a parade of the sick, the deranged, and the depraved. Every time I hit a passage describing some godawful violent & graphic death, I'm cackling like a loon. Should I be worried? Probably. But am I? Fuck no.
Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit, if "Sixty-Five Stirrup Iron Road" ain't one of the wildest rides through the haunted houseBR with Debby Y.
Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit, if "Sixty-Five Stirrup Iron Road" ain't one of the wildest rides through the haunted house genre I've ever had the pleasure of strapping into. This ain't your bedtime ghost story, no sir. It's like Nacho Vidal decided to throw a housewarming party and invited all the big guns of hardcore horror to add a layer of paint to the walls, with each layer more demented and hilarious than the last.
Crafted by the twisted minds of Brian Keene, Jack Ketchum, Edward Lee, J.F. Gonzalez, Bryan Smith, Wrath James White, Nate Southard, Ryan Harding, and Shane McKenzie, this novel is a testament to the idea that too many cooks in the kitchen might just make for the best damn feast you've ever had. Each author takes a chapter, and it's like they're all trying to outdo each other in a no-holds-barred contest of who can conjure up the most messed up, gut-busting, and over-the-top scenes imaginable. And they all bring their A-game
The story kicks off with a haunted house that's seen more sadistic violence and fiendish sex than a dive bar bathroom. For generations, this abode of abominations has been corrupting its inhabitants, turning their lives into a living hell. Enter Arrianne and Chuck, the latest in a long line of tenants, who soon find themselves caught in the house's malevolent grip. But this isn't just a tale of spooks, chipmunks and specters; oh no, it's a meta-deconstruction of hardcore horror itself.
Now, I won't spoil the ending for you, but let's just say it's like finding a jalapeno in your ice cream–unexpected, but strangely delightful. It's the kind of twist that tickles your funny bone while simultaneously making you question your sanity for enjoying it so much.
Right, four-star fiesta of fucked up shit, vomit, sperm and every other body fluid.
Oh, here we go again...fucking hell, Lee, you sick fuck, you...
In the fetid wasteland of contemporary literature, where the stench of mediocrity hangsOh, here we go again...fucking hell, Lee, you sick fuck, you...
In the fetid wasteland of contemporary literature, where the stench of mediocrity hangs thick and the prim and proper politely sip their literary teas, Edward Lee's "White Trash Gothic" storms in like a rowdy, bourbon-soaked biker gang crashing a high-society garden party. Now, the author himself recommends reading The Minotauress and The Bighead as a prelude to this...this...work of literary genius, but that's really not necessary, you want to dive headfirst into the trash heap that is "White Trash Gothic" even without reading those two books (that should be read anyway).
The tale Lee weaves is a carnival of debauchery, an unapologetic descent into the FUBAR abyss where normality goes to die. As you..."traverse the narrative" as the Writer would put it, it's impossible not to imagine the mad maestro himself, maniacally laughing at his desk while creating this masterpiece.
Now, let's talk about CKC—Cunt Kicking Competition. You know, such a thing doesn't exist but it damn well should. Lee's mastery of irreverent humour is on full display, and I'd gladly fork over my hard-earned cash to witness a competition in this...fine art. The man doesn't just toe the line of good taste; he gleefully pole-vaults over it, leaving me gasping for breath between fits of laughter. Labeling "White Trash Gothic" as "extreme horror" isn't really the right thing to do. Sure, it's technically accurate, but it doesn't prepare those who may not be acquainted with Lee's work for the...er...blistering hilarity that awaits. Lee delivers a masterclass in toilet humour, elevating it to a level that transcends the mundane and becomes an art form in itself. I won't even try to elaborate, it's...oh shit, I actually laughed my lungs out at a fucking necrophiliac scene.
Goodbye, decorum. "White Trash Gothic" is one of the most satisfying reads of 2023, a triumphant middle finger to convention, it's the unhinged genius of Edward Lee.
Edward Lee is the undisputed master of over-the-top, hilarious, and absurd extreme horror, and his onnibus Oinker-Saga, "Three Little PBR with Debbie.
Edward Lee is the undisputed master of over-the-top, hilarious, and absurd extreme horror, and his onnibus Oinker-Saga, "Three Little Pigs" is THE SHIT. First off, this is basically an enlarged edition of The Pig and the House given the first two "oinkers" are basically the same book plus a third novella, "Ouija Pig". What we have here is a potpourri (had to google that word as I didn't know how to spell it correctly) of gore, shock, sperm, shit, piss, and over-sized penises getting penetrated by normal-size penises (you read that right) and gut-busting laughter.
Right, it's essential to acknowledge that Lee's characters in this novel are, at their core, caricatures. The women are often portrayed as impossibly beautiful, endowed with monumental bosoms, and are presented as monumental teases. On the other hand, the male characters often fall into two stereotypes: the stereotypical stupid jock or the geeky incel. While these characterizations might not align with modern sensibilities - and it's a bloody good thing, in my book -, it's essential to remember that Edward Lee's work thrives on pushing boundaries and embracing the outrageous and the full-on fuckery. Also, Lee's content could be somewhat triggering for some readers. He is unapologetically far from politically correct, often diving headfirst into taboo subjects and offensive themes. However, for those (like yours truly) who revel in the more problematic aspects of horror literature, this can be seen as a strength rather than a weakness. Lee's willingness to challenge societal norms and shock his readers is a defining feature of his work. Basically, you don't like it? Then don't fucking read it, and quit squealing. It's that simple.
That being said, it's undeniable that this author can craft a gripping story that keeps readers engaged from start to finish. I mean, this is just ENTERTAINMENT. And good entertainment at that. Is "Three Little Pigs" truly horror? It's a question worth pondering because, clearly, the content is gross-out material but I found myself laughing my lungs out every other page. To all Lee's newbies, the author typically juxtaposes the terrifying with the absurd, using intense graphic elements that are so over-the-top they can often lead to a shock-laugh response from the reader: descriptions of a horror-filled scenes with such unexpected and ridiculously excessive gore that it becomes absolutely hilarious. While the horrific elements are certainly present, the constant...er...British humour (lol) and absurdity may make you question why you're laughing. But it's all right, laughing is good. Finally, his word choice and comedic timing contribute substantially to the inherent hilarity of his tales.
Man, fuck this book. I truly wished I could have put it down, yet found myself unable to do so. The sheer writing prowess of Ketchum was the only reasMan, fuck this book. I truly wished I could have put it down, yet found myself unable to do so. The sheer writing prowess of Ketchum was the only reason that pulled me through its brutal pages, it was honestly the only flotation device that kept me swimming through this abhorrent stream of horror, through this abomination...I was unable to abandon this grim tale, lying to myself, pretending it'd come with a happy ending. This is the kind of book which can make you question your own fascination with the macabre, and yet compel you to turn every gut-churning page. Let's lay it bare, the sole reason I persevered through this harrowing tale is Ketchum himself.
The root of this story, as is well known, lies anchored in one of the darkest corners of human cruelty - the murder of Sylvia Likens, which shook Indiana back in 1965. In the opening chapters, you can feel the familiar tremors of both King's nostalgic camaraderie, as seen in "The Body," and McCammon's innocent exploration, à la "Boy's Life." Yet, be forewarned, for those quaint reminiscences are but fleeting moments of respite in the grand symphony of utter sickness that follows. Just the illusion of a comforting, nostalgic narrative quickly disintegrates, and the stage is unforgivingly set for the horror to come. Ketchum brought to mind "Brother" by Ania Ahlborn, too, only "The Girl Next Door" isn't an abhorrent figment of a disturbed imagination, but a mirror held uncomfortably close to a very real atrocity. And that's what messed me up.
The heart of this story is Ruth Chandler, the scum of the earth, a woman so loathsome, so irredeemably twisted, that I found myself grinding my teeth in fury every time she showed up, hoping against all hope for her downfall. And then her "children," warped beyond recognition by her malevolent influence. Ketchum's writing prowess is evident in how these characters seem to transcend the page, casting an almost palpable darkness across the room to the point where I began to question his intentions behind such vivid portrayals of degradation. As Ketchum's narrative swam through the murkiest depths of abomination, I couldn't help but wonder whether the author himself found perverse pleasure in the unspeakable horrors he wrought. Yet, redemption came in an unexpected guise: the afterword. There, Ketchum revealed his anger, his repulsion, at the very horrors he had put to paper. In that moment, I realised that his intent was to unsettle, to challenge, to mirror the worst of human capacities.
And here's MY undeniable truth: "The Girl Next Door" is a masterful work of artistry. I am compelled, despite my disquiet, to assign a perfect rating. Ketchum's deft ability to submerge readers into the abyss, to force me to confront the sinister realities I - WE - so often choose to overlook. I find myself both awed and horrified by the experience he has woven. "The Girl Next Door" is not an enjoyable read, but it is indeed a remarkable, unique piece of art from an author who dared to bring truth to light, regardless of how horrifying it might be.
Buddy read with Debbie who actually recommended this...this...I can't even...
All right. No, nothing's right here.
FUCK. ME. DEAD.
This review is gonnaBuddy read with Debbie who actually recommended this...this...I can't even...
All right. No, nothing's right here.
FUCK. ME. DEAD.
This review is gonna be difficult, I guess. This book is a wild ride down a dark hole and a head-first dive in a putrid puddle of shit, maggots and fuck knows what else. Where do I even begin with Chandler Morrison's "Dead Inside"? Holy shit, this is hardcore. I mean, I've gone through some fucked-up stuff in my time, but "Dead Inside"? That takes a rancid cake, shoves it down your throat, and makes you beg for seconds. I've always prided myself on having a sturdy stomach for disturbing content, but THIS? I've started to question my sanity. It's like Morrison crawled into the deepest, most demented corners of his mind, pulled out the most revolting, disgusting, fucked up, deranged, necrophile obscenities and fashioned them into prose. And damn if I didn't find myself enjoying every moment of it, LMAO. What does that say about me? Probably that I'm one sick and disturbed individual, but hey, at least I'm honest about it. Let me tell you, there's a particular scene featuring a dead fetus that left me feeling dirty and violated just for reading it...and I laughed! I actually did laugh my lungs out. I can't even bring myself to describe it in detail, but it's vile, disgusting, and downright fucked up. If there's an award for pushing boundaries, Morrison would win it hands down. Amidst the depravity, I have to give credit where credit's due. Bloke can write, no doubt about it. The man has a way with words that makes you cringe, laugh...and admire his skill.
Now, here comes the tricky part – how the hell do I rate this book? It's like trying to assign a rating to some bloke breaking into your backyard while you're having a barbecue with your mates and throwing a live iguana on the grill – you can't look away, and you probably feel guilty for enjoying it. Thus, in the spirit of embracing the madness, I'll give "Dead Inside" 4 fucked up stars out of 5.
If you have any decency left in your soul, you might want to steer clear.
Morrison, you sick fuck, you...aye, who's talking?
Oh God...where to begin here? "Body Art" by Kristopher Triana, a FUBAR read that shatters the boundaries of depravity even for this author. In this twOh God...where to begin here? "Body Art" by Kristopher Triana, a FUBAR read that shatters the boundaries of depravity even for this author. In this twisted tale, we tread into the darkest recesses of the sewers of Calcutta, confronting a grotesque trinity of hard-core porn, necrophilia, and cosmic horror.
You'll find yourself entangled in a horrifying dance with the macabre, your emotions swinging wildly between retching and laughing, all while your lungs strain for a breath of fresh air. One particular scene, involving a "salvaged" female dead body and its...fluids, has left an indelible mark on Old Twerks here. Aye, picture me going "Oh ffffucking hell...eeewww...BAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!" If fiction had its own Cannibal Corpse, "Body Art" would undoubtedly be the gruesome symphony that has you banging your head and throwing horns to the sky.
And then the ending. "Body Art" holds a totally unexpected Lovecraftian twist that left me stunned...much like the finale of Gone to See the River Man did a few months ago.
That being said, there's definitely some undeniable brilliance here, no doubts about that, yet "Body Art" fell short of reaching the heights set by Triana's other works, in my opinion. Maybe I'm getting used to this sort of WT-ever-loving-F shit, fucked if I know? Anyways it's 3.5 out of 5 stars.
Kristopher Triana's "Toxic Love" unveils a mesmerizing tapestry of visceral intensity, weaving an intricate web of characters and events that tugs at Kristopher Triana's "Toxic Love" unveils a mesmerizing tapestry of visceral intensity, weaving an intricate web of characters and events that tugs at the reader's curiosity with haunting brilliance. In a manner that echoes the esoteric genius of a porngore version of David Cronenberg's "A History of Violence", the author employs an uber-gritty narrative style, deftly opting for showing over telling, a hallmark of true literary talent.
The author's uncanny ability to sustain the reader's relentless curiosity is akin to a not so complicated puzzle, always hinting at deeper & more disgusting shit yet to be unraveled. Each crescendo of intensity merely serves as a prelude to something more intense and disquieting, much like the chilling sensations I experienced a few years ago devouring Clive Barker's Books of Blood: Volumes One to Three as a teenager.
Sage, the true central character of this beguiling tale, is a harbinger of horrific sexual chaos, emblematic of the ultimate FUBAR persona. Unraveling her depths is akin to navigating a labyrinthine maze of the darkest human tendencies, each revelation more grotesque than the last. Triana masterfully unearths her depravity, as if inviting us into the twisted recesses of her mind, where the boundaries of morality blur into oblivion. And, again, I couldn't help but laugh at the vile shit happening in chapter #18.
Now, as a proud spaghetti, mafia, mandolino, Luciano-Pavarotti-and-you-can't-even-sing greasy wop, a minor cultural quirk that nudges me: being an Italian connoisseur, I couldn't help but raise an amused brow at the word "stronzino" mispronounced by a mafia boss...a delightful mistranslation of "little shit." The accurate term in Italian would be "stronzetto," a humorous linguistic nuance that failed to dampen my overall admiration for the novel's...er...profound intricacies.
It's like reading Giovanni Boccaccio's The Decameron, only the tales are a bit edgier (lol). The ending was...oh shit, it was so fucked up, I had to lIt's like reading Giovanni Boccaccio's The Decameron, only the tales are a bit edgier (lol). The ending was...oh shit, it was so fucked up, I had to laugh even though I wasn't supposed to. Duncan Ralston can write, that's for sure.
"Brother" is an outstanding patchwork of fuckery that will leave you with a feeling of bleak despair and the notion that nothPicture me disintegrated.
"Brother" is an outstanding patchwork of fuckery that will leave you with a feeling of bleak despair and the notion that nothing is good in the world. This book reminded me of Kristopher Triana's works, as both authors excel at creating a sense of hopelessness and unease. The writing is honestly exceptional, and the story is perfectly, brightly (darkly?), ingeniously built, in that every little, close to (apparently) insignificant detail will lead to the shattering end, having you go "fuck me dead..."
And the Morrows? The family, the central characters in the book, a group of lunatic serial killers who use murder as a coping mechanism for their fucked up existence. All of them are masterfully crafted. The atmosphere is tense, haunting, and will stay with you long after you've finished reading. I can't say the end came as a twist, but it left me stunned and speechless anyway.
This book is the ultimate florilegium of FUBAR. Five stars, of course....more
I could use some help, considering I'm utter shite at reviews.
You can try answering questions like these: Did you enjoyNeed help writing your review?
I could use some help, considering I'm utter shite at reviews.
You can try answering questions like these: Did you enjoy the story?
I did, matter of fact, I think it's proficiently written and engrossing. Took me only three days to go through it. Also, I loved the scenes involving a father killing sick fucks and having them suffer the most savage tortures ever. I know some bits should have grossed me out, but they didn't, given the victims. It was just the right thing.
Would you like to read another story with similar themes/characters from me?
Of course, totally. Give me more.
Was it too disturbing, just right, or not violent enough for an extreme horror book?
Not at all, considering the all the violence was directed towards a bunch of sick motherfuckers.
Were you satisfied with the ending?
Sure thing. It was cinematic, I wasn't expecting a happy ending anyway.
What if Patrick Bateman was a 16 year old cheerleader? Well, here's your answer. And fucking hell, Triana...What if Patrick Bateman was a 16 year old cheerleader? Well, here's your answer. And fucking hell, Triana......more
This was brutal. And I mean, REALLY brutal. I honestly wasn't expecting the massive amount of violence and cruelty I found while going through this boThis was brutal. And I mean, REALLY brutal. I honestly wasn't expecting the massive amount of violence and cruelty I found while going through this book. Let me be as clear as I can: whereas Edward Lee's brutality is nothing but the blackest sort of tongue-in-cheek humour, Triana's dead serious, he doesn't fuck around and goes for the throat. Some bits literally hit me like a ton of bricks...picture me going "oh shit no, no, no, no, please, no."...more
So there's this group of frat guys planning on going caving for the sole purpose of getting laid...in a cave, of all places. One of them, "EXTREME! DeSo there's this group of frat guys planning on going caving for the sole purpose of getting laid...in a cave, of all places. One of them, "EXTREME! Dean", has been the victim of a particularly mean practical joke. Only, given he's not the brightest bulb on the chandelier, he's utterly oblivious about said...hormonal prank. So anyway, the guys are joined by three girls, one of them is a bulimic bipolar chick who enjoys...er...cooking for her acquaintances (I won't be going into details as...no...just no, I had to laugh anyway, Mellick you sick fuck, you!), then there's your generic piece of ass fancied by just about every bloke, and her sister Marta, nicknamed "Giant Gonzalez" for, I guess, obvious reasons. Needless to say, everything goes south pretty much from the start. Right, if you enjoy Edward Lee's sickest shit, this is the book for you. Four amused stars....more
If I had any remaining doubts about me being nothing but a sick fuck, well I think they've gone for good. Why? I'll tell you, do you find the idea of If I had any remaining doubts about me being nothing but a sick fuck, well I think they've gone for good. Why? I'll tell you, do you find the idea of a couple of raping hillbillies going absolutely ballistic on a woman, and having her go through the vilest & most insane sexual acts to be funny? Not one bit, right? And that's because you're not a sick bogan twat like myself. Me? As I was reading (view spoiler)[about the main female character, Hazel, getting her bowels filled with urine through anal penetration, (hide spoiler)] I basically lost it and spat the tea I had just brewed. Aye, aye, I know I shouldn't be laughing at that shit...so I guess I'm still salvageable.
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