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Monday, April 30, 2012

Unless you're writing for doctors or nine-year-olds, minimize the disgusting stuff


Would you want to read any more of Rainbow Gliding Hawk and the Last Stand of the Patriarch by Doug Lambeth after encountering the first page of the first chapter?

But I can’t really respond to either of them at the moment, at least until Dirk Fender stops vomiting on my shoes. Thank God they’re rentals.

“It’s not an omen, Allison,” I say distractedly. The vomit warmth reaches through the shiny leather and as my toes begin to sweat, I pray that rental tuxedo shoes are water/puke proof. I wonder if they’re Gore-tex lined? “It’s just puke,” I say, and to punctuate the point Dirk retches his remaining stomach contents onto my feet.

The next gem is from The Wayward Comrade and the Com­missars, by Yurii Karlovich Olesha:

How pleasant my life is. Ta-ra. Ta-ra. My bowels are elastic. Ra-ta-ta. Ta-ra-ree. My juices flow within me. Ra-tee-ta. Doo-da-da. Con­tract, guts, contract. Tram-ba-ba-boom!


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