Sep 16, 2021
Aight, this is my stopping point.
I'm probably a philistine, some mongrel or any other kind of denomination of smooth brainness and lacking intelligence, but I legitimately cannot get behind anything you're laying down, my guy. There's some deep philosophical meaning masked under the scent of day-old faeces and ejaculate that I'm missing, I can smell it, but I can't taste it. I need another beer.
The characters are cool and all, I guess. Uncle's nice, Enteng is nice, Joey is Salads, Enang is my favourite. She seems the least absurd out of all of them, so that's probably why I relate to her the most. There seems to be some overarching element of trauma and dismay lingering in this postapocalytpic, coke-fueled Mad Max world and the introspection of the characters is probably second to no crack addict's, and I guess it's what held me in for so long.
The language? Brilliant. I can recognise its ingenuity, I can relate to how clever, jarring, visual, imagistic (bordering on Hemingwayan) and vibrant everything is. I just can't stomach more than five mentions of shit, cum, piss, balls, dick, pussy and fuck in a chapter. I hope you understand.
As for the plot, by God, I don't get it. I'm assuming George will become some PC MasterRace deity by the end of the novel, Enteng will sleep forever, Enang will grow the balls she's missing, Uncle will become Captain Underpants 2.0 and Joey will acquire an Adam's apple and some oestrogen to go with him.
That's all I can say. Best of luck, Commander Gurguit. God knows I wanted more of you, but He gave me too little skills to work with what you offered.
