#47 - "Sheriff Found" by Joyee Flynn

Whiny Cynanthropes And Clichéd Insipid-Tropes

(2.7/10)

by Peartree

(book requested by some reddit user)

Peartree's note: I know we've done erotica quite a bit in the past and it's such low hanging fruit it's spoiled on the ground, but this review was started months ago as it was a request outside of the normal betting scheme and had no timeline, so I planned on finishing it. Besides, this one has a shape shifting beagle in it. 

Editor's note: Pssshh, Peartree is one to talk when to comes to low-hanging fruits. Know what I'm saying? Yeeaaaahh you do. High-five, up here. Nice.

Shapeshifter mythology has been around for a long time. From neolithic cave drawings in the Pyrénées to parts of ancient literary works like The Epic Of Gilgamesh and The Iliad, from bad ass wizard duels in the 1960's (you can't fuck with Merlin, Madam Mim) to the wonderful allegorical retelling of the Book of Mormon, Twilight, it is almost universallly found in mythologies across the globe. So it only makes sense to infuse homoerotic novels with such lore. 

That being said, it is still a bit unsettling reading erotic sentences like this:

“Now, fuck your pup until I can’t walk for days and you have to carry me everywhere.”

Especially when you know it's a beagle pup getting his Harry Partch reamed by a six foot two beefcake with a sexual dominance fetish.

You may ask yourself 'Why a beagle?' and to that I answer it was the only logical choice for a shapeshifting 'sub' when you think about it. They are cute without being prissy like poodles, small but not chihuahua-small, excitable but not yappy like pomeranians, they aren't jerks like jack russells, ugly like english bull dogs or pugs, or 'mongoloid' like chow chows. So don't overthink it. Lord knows the author never did.

This story has a lot going for it: therianthropy, beagles, homosexual encounters. Pretty much something for everyone. Nonetheless, Flynn still somehow manages to miss the mark. I can accept that most readers aren't looking for a grand, developed plot with these kinds of books, but how about making the characters at least somewhat interesting and multidimensional.

On the the plot: Toby, our cutsie-wootsie cynanthrope, urinates on Randall, the sheriff of a small town. This marks him as his mate. Instantly, they are destined to be together for the rest of their lives. They begin to share each other's thoughts and feelings in a magical telepathic link, and Randall suddenly develops the "strength of twenty men" if he's trying to defend Toby.

Randall first gets a tingly feeling from his new beagle moments after Toby had pee'd on him. Well before he even knew this dog was a shapeshifter.

"He had a feeling this dog had wiggled into more than just his shirt."

What. the. fuck. The guy is so strung up on getting laid he's looking at dogs and having to actualize feelings of lust with himself. That's some fucked up foreshadowing. But thankfully we're solaced before things go too far into straight up bestiality.

"His sex life was bad, but not bad enough to push him into crazy world yet."

No, it's only after he sees Toby the beagle's "sweet little ass" that he can't help but be thrust into that world. Thrusted over and over and over again. For the next 72 pages, these two shoot off more man milk than Dan White, but once they finally get their Kermit Love out of their system, they get to the real meat of the story: the problem that forced Toby to come down from his pack in the mountains in the first place. 

Toby and his pack have some disease, I can't remember what it was but it was probably made up, like gonorrhea, and it's killing them. It has killed, sorry, a few members of his pack. He went down for help but found his mate Randall instead. He gets some medicine from a vet and they bang for a few days while others are still dying up in the mountains. Then they decide to go up there with a truck load of medicine for everyone. Toby paid for all the medicine because he is "very smart" and started a web design company by himself at the age of 22 or something and makes hundreds of thousands of dollars a year. He even has over half a million sitting in his bank account when we first meet him. Randall hit that jackpot hard with this one. Like, "kneeling on the bed with restraints and a bottle of lube" hard.

Once they get back to the village they find out the pack leader was stealing money from Toby for himself (he seemed to have just been keeping it and doing nothing with it) and they have to kick him out. And the book ends with them fleshing out a plan to guard the pack from other larger shapeshifting packs, getting the other members to quit cam whoring themselves for money, and the veterinarian, also a homosexual, getting banged by some sex crazed exhibitionist shapeshifter. All before Randall sinks into Toby's cinnamon star one final time, of course.

So that's the story, aside from some revisiting of Randall's orphaned childhood being beaten by foster parents and other such clichéd tropes. All in all I've read much worse. The thing that really gets this book down is the whiny -- fucking -- attitude of everyone. The first time they have a Herman Bang Toby declares his virgin love and says they'll be mates for life. That should set off some warning bells for ol' Randy, but instead he's excited by it.

"You’re saying I’m the only man who’s ever going to be in this sweet ass?”

Toby says "Yes" and talks about these books he's read on mating and how it's destiny and he starts to feel Randall's emotions and thoughts. Yet somehow Toby bitches out over everything Randall says and is convinced that he is going to leave him. Ejaculate prematurely and feel embarrassed? Turn into a dog and hide under the couch because you think your lover is disappointed and hates you. Tell him you love him after 24 hours and a few shit-fucks and he doesn't say it back? Turn into a dog and run away. God damn it you emotional train wreck Toby. Put away your Long John Baldry for a second and just talk about your insecurities.

Not that Randall is any better. He constantly needs to be protective and is jealous of the thought of anyone else even touching Toby's booty clam.

“Whose ass is this, Toby?”

“My ass,” I answered, glancing at him over my shoulder, completely confused. When I saw the feral look on his face as he raised an eyebrow at me, I caught on to his meaning. “Your ass, Randall. My ass belongs to you.”

I won't go on quoting but suffice to say it goes like this for the whole book. Maybe it's about a passion that I know nothing of so can't relate. Something which burns so deeply inside of you that it makes you irrational. Maybe that's why these books are so popular. So people can get away from their mediocre relationships and imagine a world where guys will throw caution to the wind and just fuck each other stupid and lose themselves in their lust. Personally that doesn't sound too appealing though. It's been my experience that when you lose yourself in lust you wake up with an Omega Mu and an empty bottle of whiskey. Next time I'm definitely trying out Randall's dirty talk though.

“You look even better with my cock in your mouth than I’d imagined.”

 - Peartree

#43 - "Your Code Name Is Jonah" by Edward Packard

Whalesongs Are Terrifying

(3.4/10)

By Peartree

(book chosen by Beau Dashington)

Editor's Note: Do you want to continue with this review? If you select 'Yes', scroll further down the page and continue reading. If you select "No", then re-direct your browser to the beginning and start again.

During my first run through this book, I died after 8 pages. It was complete bullshit. I had made all the right decisions as a spy such as George Lazenby would have. I was assigned the task of finding some scientist who disappeared after he discovered the secret to decoding a message from whales. The whales, of course, were trying to help us defeat the Russians. But some lady picked me up outside the office, pulled a gun on me, tortured me, then shot me.

I wanted to seduce the woman into not killing me like GL would have done by just getting naked and showing her my special gadget, but that wasn't a choice. And that's the main problem with these 'choose your own adventure books' (or CYOA for those hip people). It's not 'choose your OWN adventure' it's 'choose ONE OF THE LIMITED PREDETERMINED POSSIBLE COURSES OF ACTION WRITTEN BY THE AUTHOR adventure'. But OOTLPPCOAWBTAA doesn't roll off the tongue I suppose.

So anyway I wanted to write a review based on those 8 pages, but Beau said I had to read the entire book even though the first page is a warning with three (!!!) exclamation marks stating that you should NOT read it all the way through and that 'you cannot go back!'. But in the end I decided to say 'fuck it. I'm George fucking Lazenby'. Besides, it's a warning on a children's book, it's not a cop, what's it going to do?

What happens throughout the book you ask? Well for starters there are only 27 endings, not 40 like the fucking book cover states. Lying Piece Of Shit™. Other than that it was what you'd expect from a kids novel about spies. You can rescue the scientist from the bad guys' headquarters in a New England mansion, chase some evil dudes out on a boat, board a submarine to steal a recording from some villainous bros, get double or triple crossed by a nefarious pal, sell information to odious fellows, and a bunch of other stuff involving all around disagreeable chaps.

The one thing missing is that you are never swallowed by a whale, or giant fish for some reason. I assumed that was the whole point of the codename Jonah. Why else would the author give your character such a pansy ass name.

Here is a little chart of the possibilities.

That little symbol under the gun is supposed to be a wave. You drown. I should have just put this but ah well.

12.7 pages to read through the average adventure. Twelve point fucking seven. Maybe this book should have concentrated on more depth instead of breadth. Sure they idea of choosing where your character goes is fun, but if it only lasts 4 minutes it's like telling 8 bikini clad women to put together a giant four piece puzzle of George Lazenby's face. Everyone's going to be disappointed rather quickly.

Speaking of disappointment, let's go over the entire plot of the book. Some scientist has discovered that humpback whales are trying to communicate with humans and for some reason you and the Russians are warring over the information. I don't understand why. Who the hell cares what a whale has to tell you. "Hey! There are some great krill over there!" I don't care, stupid whales. By the way, ever listened to a whalesong? It's terrifying.

What they actually tell you, and I promise I'm not making this up, is there is "a huge, protected cavern in the Arctic, twenty kilometres across - a whole country, owned and occupied by whales, talking whales". It's odd that two countries would be warring over this, but you quickly learn that both countries want to use the cavern as a military base. Because fuck those talking whales. This earth belongs to us.

Every ending in which you complete your mission the President decides to not build a base there, or makes peace with Russia and they both decide they will not invade the whales' cavern. If you don't complete your mission and/or are killed you have no idea what happens because just as in life there is no epilogue. I can only assume that the Russians invade the cavern, kill off most of the whales, and hold a status referendum for the territory to join Russia.

If that is the case I hope the whales are as bad ass as my character was to take them on. In one of the stories I was on a ship and a submarine surfaced right below us.

The Arcturus is splitting open.

Water is gushing up. Waves are breaking over the deck.

"Do you think they did it on purpose?" the captain asks.

You shrug your shoulders.

"It looks like we're going down," you say.

"I'm afraid so," the captain replies.

 That's right. You don't mess with a guy who shrugs his shoulders as his ship is going down in the middle of the Atlantic ocean. The last thing the Russians saw was his smiling face as the frigid waters tried to swallow him into the abyss, because he jumped out of the water as they turned around and threw a motherfucking knife into their backs.

- Peartree

#36. "I Hope They Serve Beer In Hell" by Tucker Max

Fuck You Donika Miller.

(0/10)

By Peartree

(book chosen by Admiral Fartmore)

Editor's Note: Having spent a few rough nights out with Peartree, I'm damn glad he has enough of a brain not to write things down. Also, Tucker Max's head looks like something you'd use to clean the barrel of a cannon.

I have read some pretty shitty books in this club. 'I Hope They Serve Beer In Hell' was the least enjoyable one of them all, and that includes an humourless 1950's guide to raising children with mental disabilities. When something isn't funny, you can at least laugh at it. Whereas when someone is trying to be funny but it's not your sense of humour, the most annoying thing is for that person to keep talking. Imagine being forced to sit through a five hour showing of a Yakov Smirnoff routine. Sure, that one joke got a chuckle but reusing it every punch line makes you go insane.

And thus having read this Piece Of Shit™ I am sullen. Half way through I realised I could not find any funny angle to use, it was just shit. There were no gaps in the coil of this shit for me to get into. Maybe it's because this book is so damn popular and everything has been said about it - it was on the best sellers list for years - but I think it's morseo because he's a self-professed piece of shit who knows everything he puts out is shit.

There is no story in this collection of seemingly cookie cutter anecdotes. Drink alcohol, meet women, insult women, vomit. He even ironically addresses this in one of the stories commenting on how his early days were great but nothing note worthy. One of his first stories which was a catalyst to his fame was when he had a portable breathalyzer, challenged everyone to a drinking contest, lost, and puked in some bushes outside a sushi restaurant. It's an incredibly unimpressive feat and a pandering story.

No matter how much he drinks he always has a witty comeback right on the spot and can apparently keep track of time like George Michael Bluth. One moment he will be falling over drunk and the next he's rebuking girls like a frat boy written by a wannabe Woody Allen. And of course he always has the last word, is never humiliated (unless while it's performing some sex act), and everyone he encounters is incredibly stupid. All the women he meets are 'dumb whores'. None of them are in it for the same thing he is, just a quick bang. No, of course they all adore him and fall for his tricks because as we know no woman has ever wanted to just fuck and be done with a guy. Nonono.

Max is the Shirley Phelps-Roper of misogynists. There are the ones we forget about because of their art like Picasso or John Lennon, but Max's fame is his controversy. He will enjoy anything his name is in, and that's how he became famous. Narcissism is nothing new. From Lord Henry Wotton to the characters of It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia, we as a society enjoy narcissists. But when people start trying to live the philosophies of fictional characters they become like their characters:  two-dimensional, with no development or true conflict, and also fucking idiots. No one would be friends with a man like this. It would get old as quickly as it was reading about it.

As an easily decipherable parallel for his views on women, and most other men, in one of the earlier stories he goes to a country bar and makes fun off all the 'red necks' and 'hicks'. They, as we all know, are all inbred retarded alcoholics. Yet he decides to go a bar populated by them. He puts himself in situations he feels superior and dismisses all others who challenge him because he is a lummox. This is evident in his new real-life entrepreneurial endeavour 'book in a box' (essentially a ghost-writer networking business)

One of the only lines from the book to make me laugh is after a trip he writes "the way that weekend worked out, we really didn't run into or have to deal with the legions of douche bags and tools that now seem to infect every aspect of Vegas." That was it. The only time I laughed.

So why is this guy so popular? I used to read Maddox with my friends when I was young and it was about the same humour. It could be that as I get older I have less time for drunken aggrandized sex stories, or that I find having constant thoughts of sex and picking up women at any cost pathetic, but I think it's the quantity. If I had read one of these stories while perusing reddit I would have laughed and moved on. But 267 pages of the same shit over and over is depressing and infuriating to the point of psychological damage. So if you want to torment your enemy force them to read this book. Unless he's a twenty-something frat boy. In that case don't waste your time, have some self-respect and get a better enemy.

-Peartree

PS. I should state my actual beef, as per the title, is with Donika Miller. His editor or something who Max says in the acknowledgement 'does more than just add value--her critiques turn good writing into great writing'. I can only guess as to what value she had added as there is none in the final draft, and this book is a fucking astronomical unit away from 'great writing'. Max may embellish and aggrandise his writings, but that was not hyperbole.

#32 - "To Train Up A Child" by Michael and Debi Pearl

Your Child Is A Persian Rug

(2.1/10)

By Peartree

(book chosen by HotBot)

Editor's Note: I'm not entirely convinced that anyone in the Piece of Shit™ Book Club should reproduce.  Participation seems like a fairly good sign that you're a damaged and possibly deviant soul.  All the talk about spanking in this review tends to convince me further.  - the Spanish Flu. 

There's quite a bit I want to say about this book, but really it comes down this: you probably shouldn't switch your toddler for climbing up on a chair, but if your kid ends up on Maury bragging about how much drugs and sex they have you should probably beat some sense into the little shit.

I say 'probably' because they're your kids and I'm most likely not a social worker in your area, but I could be... Hell, I could be the author of this book (which you should totally buy!). I'm also not going to wave a banner with nameless kids emblazoned on it rallying the righteous in the name of abuse. If I see it or hear about it I'll do something to put a stop to it, sure, and I hope those responsible will be punished within the terms of the law. But the number of discourteous undisciplined ass-hats growing up these days is certainly on the rise it seems.

When I was growing up I was spanked on occasion. Maybe three or four times in my lifetime. It wasn't painful, it was humiliating. And I learned my lesson. We had one cardinal rule though, never swear at our parents. When I was eleven or twelve I was angry with my mother for some reason I can't remember and I screamed 'Fuck you' red faced full of adrenaline. My father grabbed me by the collar and slammed me into the fridge. It was not the best way to resolve the situation but I never did it again.

This book, however much a Piece Of Shit™, would rebuke my father for getting angry. It's not a book that really needs a petition to have it 'stopped': some of the other books on this site are far more deserving. Well, half of this book isn't. It lives in a dichotomy of severe religious chastisement with antiquated gender roles and actual sound, loving, parenting advice. I can see why some exaggerate parts of it in mock encomium, but I can also see why people advocate it.

If you took out lines such as,

"if you have to sit on him to spank him then do not hesitate. And hold him there until he is surrendered. Prove that you are bigger, tougher, more patiently enduring and are unmoved by his wailing. Defeat him totally. Accept no conditions for surrender. No compromise. You are to rule over him as a benevolent sovereign." 

but left ones like,

"do with them the things they enjoy doing. Be caring. Be more ready with your ear than you are with your mouth. Be very sensitive to their concerns. Tie strings until you have earned their respect and honor." 

it doesn't seem like it'd be that bad of a book. With those parts left in, many people view this as a manual for child abusers, and it has even been linked to three deaths, with the parents of one being convicted of first degree murder. The case can be made that a book can instigate violent and abusive ideologies. But condemning a book for a death is, as one fat fuck says, like blaming Columbine on bowling, or like blaming scat porn because your girlfriend makes you shit on her chest before sex on 'special occasions'. It may have opened the door to possibilities or dormant desires, but she was the one who acted on it and now you have to deal with it by cleaning shit stained sheets once a month.

It was the people who read the book and took on the first set of lines who killed a child. You can interpret any writing to fit your needs. Like those people who twist their thinking to interpret the last line of TS Eliot's The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock. Yes it says 'we drown', no he is not using Prufrock's soliloquy as a mirror for his poetic creations you twats.

But back to Pearl. The book states so many times, over and over, that punishments cannot be done in anger or be emotionally charged. Yet with passages like the following I suppose it's hard to remember the anger issue. I mean, when you're cutting down a large tree branch to give a kid a beat down you've probably got something building inside you already.

"Any spanking, to effectively reinforce instruction, must cause pain, but the most pain is on the surface of bare skin where the nerves are located. A surface sting will cause sufficient pain, with no injury or bruising. Select your instrument according to the child's size. For the under one year old, a little, ten- to twelve-inch long, willowy branch (striped of any knots that might break the skin) about one-eighth inch diameter is sufficient. Sometimes alternatives have to be sought. A one-foot ruler, or its equivalent in a paddle, is a sufficient alternative. For the larger child, a belt or larger tree branch is effective."

The primary idea behind all this punishment is to relieve the child of their guilt says Pearl. Imagine your child as a fine pure silk Kashan rug. Intricately designed medallions woven about in a swirl of gold and crimson atop soft hues of green with a count of 800 knots per square inch. It's exquisite. But after you've had it a while, the vacuum doesn't quite get all the dust and debris out any more. That dust is the child's guilt. You have to hang it up over a railing and beat it with a stick to get it out. That's the idea anyway.

If you don't do this, or you do this too much, your children will rebel. Pearl gets real for a moment saying,

"Many parents have thus driven their young daughter into the arms of an unwholesome lover."

And I can attest to this myself from second hand knowledge. One of our own alumni, Wildcard, recently had a second date with a woman stating that he didn't envision them having sex because she was too close, and had a good relationship, with her mother. So having a healthy relationship with your children can actually affect their future suitors. And you don't want your daughters going out with Wildcard. Trust me on that one.

There's a good chance you don't want your daughters to be Pearl's version of women either though. Mixed between his teachings of abuse and his actually sound parenting advice he gives his wisdom on gender roles. My favourite of which is,

"Avoid like the plague the girl who would pursue her own career outside the home"

Yes ladies, you are to be treated like a disease which has killed over 75 million people if you try to pursue a career. I guess feminists and lesbians must be like the Spanish Flu and Smallpox.

Many, many people have reviewed this book and gone over all of the 'monstrous' advice therein. In an age where your own children are threatening to call child services on you, you've already fucked up as a parent. It's either you didn't discipline them enough and you can't converse with them, or you actually beat them and deserve to be jailed. If you read this book and come out of it with thoughts of "I should cane my children" you're a pliant idiot who never should have reproduced in the first place.

#28 - "The Legend Of The Leopard Boy" by Don Johnson

Adventurous Handiwork

(5.1/10)

By Peartree

(book chosen by Beau Dashington)

Editor's Note: A few weeks ago, we decided it was time to revisit some of the worst authors we had read so far. And so here is the second installment in our series of sequels. So Peartree is revisiting the second book in the boys trilogy. In the last book, the boys were being homoerotic and looking for treasure. What will happen this time? Only time will tell.

For any long time readers out there you may be shocked to see a rating above 5.0. But yes, that is not a typo. Although certainly a Piece Of Shit™, it has managed to join the ranks of sequels which have bested their originals such as Superfudge, Lord Of The Dance, Sister Act 2: Back In The Habit and World War 2.

Once again Don Johnson's novel follows a gimcrack bunch of bi-curious and homosexual lads on a paint-by-numbers adventure to find a dreamed up treasure. But through all of the poor editing, shit syntax, and plot inconsistencies there is still something special. That specialness comes from his uncanny ability to make the same jokes you would with your friends. Familiar inside jokes which came about through shared experiences and bonding. Reading Johnson is like waking up with a really bad hangover and reading through a transcript of the drunken conversation you had last night while binge drinking with your mates. You know, the kind of hangover where you are profoundly and spiritually exhausted and your beer shit could have passed through a tennis racket. One of those.

At 68 pages it's obvious he doesn't waste time with insipid opulence; poring over details, setting up scenes in our minds eye, painting lustrous, vivid worlds for us to escape in. No, instead we have "He was chained up against the wall, which was rocky and cave-like just like the inside of a rocky cave." But that's ok, it leaves room for the real meat and potatoes. Namely, dick and ball jokes. But not necessarily direct jokes about the male reproductive organ, no, they have substance, some girth to them. Some jokes you don't even realise are jokes until you see that the main part, the structural support, the tent pole of the story is a dick joke. In the wrong hands these jokes can be crass and too all over your face, but the author has refined the handiwork of his early efforts, polishing his literary banister by no longer shooting himself in the foot with too many lewd thinly veiled euphemisms.

This time around the all male, dick strutting cast of characters which although different from the first book, In The Heat Of The Cock Pit, all have the same names. There is Brady the proprietor of The Fox-Hole, a dancing boys club where Steve Heat shakes it for nickels. Will, an idiot who works behind the bar or something, Blake the midget bathroom attendant, and Logan the drunken loser who gets loser drunk and grabs Steve Heat's penis. Essentially they all go on a treasure hunt with Pawan, Blake's hairdresser who becomes a gibbering nonsensical mess and Devin, a for-hire mercenary who is a bad ass for hire. Oh and there is also Joey, some stupid kid that runs around whining all the time.

Personally now having read two of Johnson's trilogy 'Boy Series' I am highly anticipating the upcoming third installment - The Pump Kimg Panic, slated for an early July release.

Editor's Note: Oh shit... looks like we're going to have a second sequel round coming up soon. Thank fuck I won't have to read anything by Roosh V again.

#25. "The Dog Who Couldn't Stop Loving: How Dogs Have Captured Our Hearts For Thousands Of Years" by Jeffrey Moussaieff Masson

Anthropomorphic Conceit -- Or, All Dogs Are Retards.

(2.23/10)

By Peartree

(book chosen by Beau Dashington)

Editor's Note:  When dogs get boners the dink looks all pink and weird. If you poke it with a stick it will shrivel back into the body.

"If you believe as I do—that Benji represents a certain kind of mutation, and that he is pure love—then this is merely one more expression of that most delightful of genetic mishaps: a creature entirely benign and wishing only to express the immense love he feels inside."

Imagine, if you will, a race of super intelligent extraterrestrials. They come to earth and realise we could be useful to them in some way, some menial task they could do themselves but are lazy. We fight their oppression for a while so instead they just kidnap thousands of our infant children and take them back to their home world.

They raise the humans to be obedient and find that their own alien children are rather fond of these dumb wild beasts. So they start selective breeding. At first simply making us more docile. But over generations they realise they like the features of one such human more than another so start focusing in on more and more birth defects they find endearing. Fast forward 40,000 years and the humans on that planet are no closer to us than the aliens themselves. They've been bred by specific characteristics which make us unsuitable for our original purpose but are now 'adorable' in their eyes. Extreme achondroplasia, hydrocephalus/microcephaly, brachycephaly, hypertrichosis, achromia, progeria, or maybe they've even been able to keep anencephalic humans alive, or any number of defects, but most importantly neoteny has been taken to the extreme and they are unable to develop the mental capacities past that of a seven year old. All of the cognitive abilities which give us our spirit to do more is lost. They are content, and as such cannot fathom any world beyond the one they've grown into. They love their masters unconditionally.

And over the course of that 40,000 years the aliens themselves have unexpectedly evolved with their human pets. By just being around the human spirit, no matter how stunted, they have evolved to be more loving, more hopeful, more empathetic. The aliens never knew of love before. Had never experienced a companionship unbridled with a pure sense of adoration. Never felt an intimacy and devotion void of conditions and stipulations. 

'But Peartree', you object, 'humans are monsters. They are the only species in existence known for atrocities such as war and genocide'. Yes, this is true I admit. But no 'retarded' person ever wanted a war (with the possible exception of Feodor I of Russia in the Russo-Swedish War of 1590-95) and that's what these neo-human-pets have invariably come to be, 'retards'. The aliens now see these poor, broken humans as creatures who only love because they are too stupid to comprehend their own lamentable existence.

This is what Masson is asserting in his book. That dogs, once domesticated, domesticated us and gave us the ability to feel empathy for all other species and beings -- "Without the wolf, would we have become a different species? I think it is very likely". That we never felt these emotions, truly, before dogs entered our lives. Because sure, it's not like dogs were ever seen as unclean and rejected from any society.... He even states "I would go so far as to suggest that we are no longer two entirely separate species. There is a sense in which we have merged."

Almost all of his ideas are represented by personal accounts of his own dog Benjy, who couldn't stop loving obviously. The flowery, nauseating prose ("the only thing dogs steal is our hearts") he uses to describe his own love of dogs is cut short before, what I can only surmise would be to follow, his interspecies boudoir episodes. But the amount of times the term 'dog love' is used in this book makes me doubt his abstention in confusing lust and love -- "Dog love is unlike that of any other species—even that of humans."

But I suppose Masson would be OK in my imagined scenario though, because he certainly finds the best in situations -- "many people misunderstand neoteny, even animal behavior specialists." True. Animal behavior specialists are fucking stupid yo. I mean who spends years getting a degree in animal behavior? Masson certainly didn't. And neither did I. But I didn't write a book about it. I had the decency to just write a shitty review on a blog which isn't charging anyone to read my nonsense. So quit having sexual relations with animals and show some decorum to your readers Masson, start spouting off your codswallop for free.

- Peartee

PS. There seems to be a pattern in which I write reviews about books based on dogs while drunk so I come off a bit more irritable. I do like dogs... but the way these people write about them is fucking asinine.

#21. "You And Your Retarded Child" - Samuel A. Kirk

"Pharoahs can't swim in the desert." (3.4/10)

By  Peartree

(chosen by Beau Dashington)

Editor's Note: Carrots are purple. Why am I a bird?  

When Beau assigned me 'You And Your Retarded Child' to read for our group I was a little confused. It didn't seem like a book that would be funny to read, nor would it upset me enough to delight his schadenfreude. But as I read on I came to understand his choice and the man who chose it. I came to realize that Beau is a mentally challenged man. Albeit one who finds humour in self-hating antiquated words like 'retarded', 'mongoloid', and 'cretin'.

The book makes very clear from the beginning that all of the advice and tactics used within should be individualized for each child. No two 'retarded' children are the same. Beau happens to be a fairly specialized case of 'idiocy'. Firstly we must find out how 'retarded' our child is by defining his mental, physical, and emotional capacities into either dependent, trainable, or educable. These classifications are defined as one who develops either at one quarter, one quarter to one half, or one half to three quarters the rate an average child, respectively.

Beau, being an early thirties adult male, while reaching a mental capacity of that age, a physical one of that of a twelve year old, and an emotional/maturity level of a sixteen year old male averages out to be a twenty year old. Or one who has developed exactly two thirds of his actual age, making him an educable child; one who can help with chores around the house, support the family in some way or another, and does not require constant supervision. This must have been a burden on his family, but 'rarely are educable children admitted to the growing number of specialized schools now being offered by the state'.

Looking back through our Facebook messages this should have become clear much earlier. But I suppose I took most of the signs as nothing more than idle banter between friends. Checking my messages to find things like

"i just did an online search to find out how many kilograms are in a metric ton." 27 June 2014 at 22:07.

"Pharoahs can't swim in the desert" 27 June 2014 at 22:07. 

"man.. i just worked out why I am a bird... it always seems like the more questions you answer, the more questions get raised;" 10 April 2012 at 10:49 PDT .

I never questioned why these ideas came about and figured he was just being what adolescent girls like to refer to as 'so random'.

But I am glad I did not shoot down these remarks as this book taught me that "The feeling of accomplishment derived from even the simplest activities goes a long way towards developing a feeling of personal worth in retarded children." So when he worked tirelessly at the task of determining himself to be a bird luckily I simply congratulated him. Validating his work and his sense of self. Although this may have had an adverse effect in his development.

You see, while although well travelled for a 'retard' he has come to have a sense of superiority with all of praise given him, leading him to become a bigot. The countless derogatory racial slurs have unknowingly piled up. There are too many to list here in the 6,503 messages I looked back on, but when brought together it is quite shocking. But there must be a balance between reprimands and praise. As you see "when a child is resistant to suggestion and refuses to comply with your request, the child is said to be negativistic." Which "begins when he has matured sufficiently to recognize himself as an individual" and should be "seen as a sign of growth". So yes it is in poor taste for him to say thing like:

"Dutch people are like ants. Fucking everywhere." Wednesday, 9 July 2014 at 15:06 PDT. 

But it is helping his developmental growth.

I have faith in him though as "the cretin tends to be docile, listless, good-natured, and easily led." So hopefully through my guidance I can help him to channel his inner 'cretinism' and get back to the good-natured little boy growing up. Not only that but he has expressed his own frustrations to me directly and has wished to continue to develop and not be complacent with where he is now, telling me

"god i wish i wasn't such an idiot"  5 January 2015 at 09:27 PST 

very shortly after assigning me this book. Well Beau, know your cry for help did not go unheard. I will be there to help push you further than the doctors of this book could have ever believed possible.

- Peartree

P.S. if any Thai women have been reading this blog and wouldn't mind meeting up with Beau he once stated

"Thai nurses are really sexy. I really hope one of them touches me on the penis" Friday, 22 August 2014 at 21:19 PDT 

it would probably mean the world to one little 'retarded' boy.

#19. "Shattered Prophecy" by David Standeven

Won't someone think of the children!?

(4.1/10)

By Peartree

(Submitted by David Standeven)

Editor's Note: This is the second time the Piece of Shit Book Club™ has been asked to review a book by its author. The rest of us were so fucking busy that we really didn't have the time but thankfully Peartree is an anti-social loser.
Maybe David will write a review of another book or something or we'll get him to guest post or some shit, what the fuck do I know. Shattered Prophecy is available for purchase here.

Why do dogs circle three or more times before sitting down? Why won't McDonald's sell me hot dogs? And why are the necromancers at war with the knights of Fristad? These are questions to which I fear I will never know the true answer.

Sure dogs have always circled, McDonald's hasn't sold hot dogs in a coon's age, and the necromancers have been at war for two hundred years, but just because it has always been doesn't give it a reason. Ovine acceptance don't cut it here David.

Had we known what their motives were for waging war against the 'metal men' perhaps we could have figured out why the hermitic (hermitish? hermitical?) Guardians had named a bunch of kids as their saviours. Perhaps the Guardians secretly knew that the necromancers were actually decent dudes that were fighting because it's what they believed in, and that they would be taken aback by seeing children on the battle field, thus leaving them shocked and vulnerable. Since child recruitment is a Grave Violation on the United Nation's Conventions on Children and Armed Conflict, and since producing material advocating the violation of those laws is also a crime, this book is not only a Piece of Shit™, but also a war crime.

The 'snakes' (that's the necromancers), who are probably accustomed to fighting off battalions of men, should not be subjected to the killing of twelve year old girls. That is entirely too much, even for hardened warriors. And the Guardians knew that would happen too, just reread the name of the book!

What is it about fantasy that elevates children to legendary heroes? It's always some kid from some backwater no-name-town who is thrown into an adventure where they are the only ones who can save the world. It's never the actual armies and generals who have trained their whole lives and studied battlefield tactics. At least Standeven somewhat addressed that issue by having his children warriors brought up as knights for most of their lives, but that probably only exacerbated the Dunning-Kruger effect on their impressionable young minds.

The other issue with having child soldiers is you have to deal with childish antics. Teen rebellion, unrequited love, brash and impulsive decisions, and a general sense of confusion manifest in our protagonists as their bodies go through changes they can't even bring up and talk about because they are on a fucking battlefield. Had they had the time to sit down and mull through their feelings, they probably would have come to the conclusion that kids make poor dragon slayers despite what classic JRPG's would have us believe.

I mean, if you were planning a suicide mission to charge the enemy to allow your squadron time to retreat and only wanted to recruit a small team, how would you do it? Would you go around camp and collect a small team together of those you knew would be willing to sacrifice themselves for the greater good, or would you build a huge funeral pyre, light it on fire, and stand on top of it as you gave out a rallying and emboldened retreat speech only to have it backfire and encourage those you didn't want to die come and join the suicide mission? Kids don't think this shit through. That's just self-aggrandising pompousness. He just wanted everyone to know he was going on a suicide mission more than he wanted to help save everyone. I suppose you can't be a martyr if no ones knows what you did but the symbolism of standing on a funeral pyre to get your martyrdom across is laying it on a bit thick.

Personally, if I were to advocate my own martyrdom I would simply let the world know I read Piece Of Shit Books™ on the internet. We sacrifice so much here.

- Peartree

Editor's Note: If we're going to be martyrs, does that mean we get 72 virgins? I'm willing to negotiate down if I have to. All right, I'll take one. One virgin. Provided it isn't Peartree. Speaking of virgins, you can pick up Standeven's book, "Shattered Prophecy," here.

#16 - “The Modern Gentleman: A Guide To Essential Manners, Savvy & Vice” by Phineas Mollod and Jason Tesauro

I'll thrust my groin whenever I damn well please.

(3.3/10)

By Peartree

(book chosen by Captain Charisma)

Editors Note: Captain Charisma thought Peartree would be the most suited to review a book on gentlemanly conduct due to his regular and common disgraceful behaviour. Judging from the review, he clearly did not learn a thing. Next time I go on holiday with him I hope he at least brings more than one fucking suit.

The Modern Gentleman is a mish mash guide of bizarrely random and sometimes confusing topics. Useful subjects such as artful conversation and apologies are followed by perplexing over analyses of mundane subjects, such as a how-to of pouring ketchup out of a glass Heinz bottle. One particularly peculiar topic was the method of calculating how many shirts one should bring on a trip, whereby a Modern Gentleman should take the numbers of pants exponentiated by three and adding the number of shoes, finding the square root of this sum, then finally adding the number of days. Let me tell ya, I spent four goddamned days in Tijuana wearing only one suit and shirt and never had a problem.

The advice given by Mollod and Tesauro on the various topics are... curious at times. While I’ll agree that learning about oysters down at the local market is a sound idea to help me become the well rounded gentleman I strive to be, I have to question their thoughts on family reunions and their choice of puns. Stating “Incest-dentally, it is not discourteous to express lingering affections for single, peripheral kinfolk…” I don’t think I've ever been described as prudish but I certainly draw the line before incest.

In fact there are number of off putting lines I found throughout the book. Have a mistress which you fell in love with? You can leave your wife, but “the mistress must be superior beyond a reasonable doubt”. Getting to see your new flings apartment for the first time? Feel free to check drawers and even “glance askance at the bathroom trash. signs of birth control method or that time of the month are often in plain sight”. If you find yourself at a Passover celebration “you may gleefully aid the kids hunting the afikoman, a hidden sheet of matzo -- though, as many a disappointed suitor has discovered, it’s invariably behind the couch cushion, not under the skirt of the eldest daughter.”

Most of the guidance given, using colourful metaphors, revolves around sex, furthering the stereotype that all males really care about is getting their Axolotl in fresh new waters. The lavish language gave me quite the queer expression trying to decipher what it was they were saying without actually saying it. “Prolong and tease by peppering oral pleasures with plenty of hand jive. Use different utensils for different dishes, don’t mix peas and carrots; and never explore the fundament too early in the count”. Ok I get the first part, get my hands working while I'm whistling in the weeds. Then I would say use different toys with different women, not everyone’s into pegging, I get it. But that peas and carrots thing? I just have no clue. And the last is yet another anal innuendo.

Approximately a third of the book seems to be about how to initiate a three-some (hint: get a girl to bring on another girl) or vanguarding their benefits, but peppered throughout are little nuggets of everlasting knowledge. How to organize your fridge, a primer on cotton-candy, and my personal favourite, which I will certainly retain into my golden years, is “sandwiches are instantly enlivened with a diagonal cut, a toothpick, and a green olive.”

Another aspect I will certainly find useful is the again overly complex charts and systems devised to help me; grade my trinkets into useful or throwaways based on meaningfulness, uniqueness, familiarity, and the wonderfully named arc of archivability, or how to categorize my friends and acquaintances into appropriate circles, and measuring my anger and outbursts on a one to ten scale system.

Well after reading this book I would say my anger would reside at a paltry two, alongside accidentally “ignoring a wet paint sign”. I’ll brush it off and keep on my way. But for any self-inflated, privileged asshat who feels like they have to read a book which starts out with “knot up your ascot, pour a glass of sherry, and dim the lights; your Man Cycle is peaking” to become a gentleman is already lost. Leave the over the top exuberances to Kelsey Grammar. Take inspiration from the laconic Tao Te Ching and leave with just one page of Sam Martin’s ten rules, leaving open any interpretation you wish. Reading this books cacophony of ideas of triviality will get you no where. Obsessing over minuscule details about which flatware is best for caviar for you to impress those around you is about as bad as negging women in hopes of sleeping with them. However, if you are actually interested in caviar, than pick up a book about that subject, not a book about how to fake your way through a selection of topics and interests while having no real interests of your own.

But I leave you fair reader with one last golden truth from our authors which I hope you will take to heart: “intimacy grows lush like plush moss on a rotten log”. Try not to waste that intimate moss on frivolous details.

- Peartree

#13 - "Pickles and Ponies" by Laura May

Horse-Cocks and Seal-Fucking: A Hardcore Fairy Tale for Sexual Deviants
 (4.9/10)

by Beau Dashington, Admiral Fartmore and Peartree

(book submitted by Laura May)

Editors' note: This review represents the first time the Piece of Shit Book Club™ has been requested to review a book by the author. It must because of our stinging yet positive literary critiques. That, and the boner gags. And here is that book, written by our very own HotBot, an Australian type person who according to our friend SaltySankhala, may just be an internet bot. Stay tuned for the next review in the Piece of Shit Book Club™, when it will be HotBot’s turn to write as she reviews a book assigned to her by the boys. And that book is going to be a genuine, bona fide Piece of Shit™.

The first rule of fairy tales is that you do not talk about fairy tales.

The second rule about fairy tales is that, as the author tells us, the characters live happily ever after.

Pickles and Ponies is, ostensibly, a fairy tale written by an Australian robot cum author, Laura May (try not to get a mental image of the phrase “cum author”). But as the pages pass, it becomes pretty clear pretty quickly that the story is just a cover for the author’s own sexual fantasies.

Our story opens in the land of Raduga, a fairy tale world populated only by princes, princesses, and their bizarre sexual slaves. The story opens with a meeting between Prince Randolph and Princess Christine, as he tries to “steal her cherry”... I don't want to say what we thought that meant at first because it might be offensive. Lets just assume its an actual cherry and move on.

In the opening of the story, we learn that adulthood is a sickness, caught from “gu-fairies.” Yup. In Raduga there is a bizarre race of creatures called the “gu-fairies”, whose name is certainly synonymous with jizm (this analogy was clearly intended by our author, as she seems to employ an infuriating amount of puns even Piers Anthony would sneer at). The jizz-fairies assault the children, which turns them into adults. After the assault, people wrap themselves up in a little cocoon for a week and then emerge as an adult. The jizz fairies probably represent someone’s first time masturbating, but it isn’t exactly clear. Though I do know that after I first figured out how to help my Lyndon B. run for office, I probably didn’t leave my bedroom for solid  week. The adulthood part is still a question mark. Either way, the jizz-fairies justify what they are doing by saying they didn’t really mean to hurt the kids, and they only did it because they love the children so much.

Indeed. I feel like I’ve heard that excuse before.

We also learn that the special move that Princess Christine uses is “the poke.” I wonder what that means. Here’s a quote; “Randolph had witnessed the power of the Poke many times growing up with Christine, and was committed to making sure his son was an expert in all aspects of poking.”

Indeed. I feel like I’ve heard that somewhere before.

The poke, which it's hard not to assume refers to banging, functions as a cure-all response to pretty much any obstacle the characters of Raduga face. If there’s a tree in your way, just bang it into sawdust. If a plank of wood is too short, just bang it until it extends to your desired length. If your daughter is depressed, just hire Raduga's Ron Jeremy to come in and sort her out. While fucking a tree may seem a bit far fetched, keep in mind that in Raduga almost everything from a ship to the ocean itself has some anthropomorphic qualities. Nothing is safe from the poke.

After a bunch of magic, cherry-stealing, and the poking of innocents (mostly, it seems, children) we eventually learn of our main characters. One is Vanya, the Prince of Quite Large and Really Rather Big Fish (if you imagine our author as a female Douglas Adams playing on the floor with My Little Pony dolls, a lot of the themes in this book start to gain some perspective). Due to a curse, he has no emotion. He has assigned to him a horse, named Horse, who is able to talk, and explains Vanya’s emotions to him.

Vanya’s female counterpart is the Princess Melodia of Rather Fish-Like Things. After reading too many fairy tales, she decides to exile herself to a deserted island while awaiting her prince to come rescue her. For some reason, Vanya’s parents decide that if he were to rescue Princess Melodia, he might get his emotions back.

Along the way, he must complete a number of tasks. One involves a witch, from whom Vanya frees a new sidekick named Theo. Another task involves Vanya, Horse and Theo assailing a giant cliff. They receive assistance from Hammy the Hamster. I assume the author got copyright clearance for that one.

Melodia, meanwhile, gets bored and is manipulated into banging a dude every day for the promise of new clothes. Once he starts to find their relationship dull he threatens to start banging new island floozies unless she starts doing it a “new way” by insinuating she is stuck up and not “willing to explore a bit” (italicization is the author’s). Of course the author means anal. This all by a guy who is half-man half-seal, known as a selkie. Whereas I thought this was made up, I found out later that it is actually a real thing. There are actually references in Gaelic mythology to people fucking seals. What. The. Fuck.

If you were hoping for our protagonists to stop fucking seals and horses and whatnot, you will end up disappointed. As Vanya’s quest to save the Princess Melodia continues, he ends up deciding to join a circus for seven years. He abandons his Horse, who starts fucking a sea-horse... who knocks him up. True story.

In spite of all the build up, which seems to be bringing Vanya and Melodia together, this does not come to pass. Instead, Melodia starts banging Theo, and the book ends tragically; the mentally handicapped Vanya left by the wayside while the emotionally stable ride off into the sunset. Vanya gets his heart restored just in time to get dumped, breaking rule number 2: characters live happily ever after.

Although well-written and not a Piece Of Shit™ by our normal standards, it’s hard not to wonder if the author just needed a cheap cover to write a story about sex with seals and horses and getting covered in goo by jizz-fairies. That’s certainly the impression up-front. But past these curtains of spunk sits a window overlooking some interesting themes; feminism, a woman’s role in the world, expectations and fantasy versus reality, isolation and friendship, horses, etc., are all examined from an innocent and very literal perspective, akin to South Park’s social commentary. They are well placed and fitting.

However, at times it feels like the fairy-tale is a vehicle that perhaps hinders the author as much as it aids her, insofar as while it grants the author plenty of maneuverability, it also means that we the readers have a tougher time connecting with characters or empathizing with their jizz-coated tribulations. It IS satire, of course, but she who fights fairies should be careful lest she herself become a jizz-fairy. And so in the end, we’d recommend for May to light some candles, put on some Lionel Ritchie, wrap up in a seal-pelt, and get acquainted with her own gu-fairies. ‘Cause fairy tales are for perfect princesses, and judging by the undercurrents of sexual depravity in her first book, a perfect princess she ain’t.

If you haven't already caught on, Laura May has a wicked sense of humor - not just by the fact that she submitted her book so we could take the piss out of it.  Grab her book here.

Beau Dashington, Admiral Fartmore, and Peartree

14/11/2014