by: Andrew Wayne Adams
“I need to eat to be happy. I need to eat souls like yours. I also like cold cuts and ice cubes. I am remorseless.”
That was what the garbage disposal said to Ian on his third night in his new apartment. Two nights before, when he turned on the shower for the first time (he had neglected to check it before signing the lease), ground beef came out.
The tub drained into the apartment below, where a hungry man lived, but Ian ignored that. He called his landlord on a rotary phone, and when he put the receiver to his ear, ground beef came out.
“The cracks in the walls are a map. Have you any porridge to pour down here? Imitation grits?” Fingers reached up through the garbage disposal. Ian turned on the hot water, blistering hot, and hammered at the fingers with a giant spoon. He flicked the switch that worked the garbage disposal, but this only lowered a disco ball in the closet.
The fingers retreated back down the drain, and a mouth took their place. It had two rows of teeth. Ian remembered his landlord, the sole time they met. The man had been chewing bubblegum, the pink rubber strung between two rows of teeth. Ian had signed the lease.
The hungry man was his landlord.
“I must have comfort food,” said the garbage disposal. “My food the comfort of others.” Ian thought you could interpret that in two ways.
He put a dirty plate over top of the drain.
Going for a beer, he remembered that the refrigerator was full of cake, every cubic inch of space, so that when he opened the door, it was just a wall of cake facing him. A wedding cake, to judge by its frosting.
The dirty plate on top of the drain was dirty with ketchup and soap suds.
Pissed at not having a beer, Ian went to his “office” and dug through his papers on the floor until he found his lease. He combed through it, trying to find some loophole out of this shit.
The lease said: “I agree to live in this shit for one (1) year and not complain. I agree to marry one (1) of your daughters and not complain. I, the undersigned, agree to live the Good Life and never, ever complain.”
He had signed it.
She came up behind him, put the cold beer on his neck playfully. He winced at the chill, and she slid her arm around his shoulders. He took the beer from her and opened it with his teeth, of which he had two rows.
The bottle was full of ground beef.
She said, “How are you?”
He said, “I can’t complain.”
She suggested they shower. In the shower, he soaped her breasts, and the showerhead bled ketchup and cold cuts.
The hungry man in the apartment below screwed his mouth to the ceiling, sucking down what drained from their shower. He ate well—grew huge—filled his apartment, so that when you opened the door, it was just a wall of him facing you. A Lonely man, to judge by his moaning.
Andrew Wayne Adams is an Amerikan-Kanadian writer and artist. His first book, Janitor of Planet Analingus, came out in 2012. The above is an excerpt from his new collection I Have No Idea What I’m Doing, which you should buy, and was previously published in Strange Edge Magazine.
Send your weird little stories to firstname.lastname@example.org.
I have no idea why I’m full of tadpoles and mayonnaise. No idea why this cockroach is psychoanalyzing me. I don’t know what you’re doing with that moose on your shoulder, don’t know why you still don’t love me even after I bought you that pack of gum. I’m not sure where this elevator is going, or how I got on it. Not sure how I didn’t notice the ground beef coming out of every faucet in my new apartment. I have no idea why bagpipes and drums go so well with chainsaw murder. I have no idea what kind of sandwich I want before I commit suicide. I have no idea what I’m doing.
Containing thirty-one stories written over the past ten years, this collection chronicles the total inability of Andrew Wayne Adams to know what he is doing.
Get it here
Eraserhead Press’ publishing schedule will see a new bizarro book available at the start of every month. But right now, a few of them are available for preorder! Any of these books would be a wise use of your Christmas money.
The first is Jimbo Yojimbo, a redneck samurai epic available at the start of the new year. Preorder it!
Later that month comes Larissa Glasser’s F4, available January 15th. Preorder it!
Then in February comes I Have No Idea What I’m Doing by Andrew Wayne Adams. Preorder it!
And then all the way in July comes another Carlton Mellick III book, Neverday. Preorder it!
By Michael Allen Rose
If I were to ask you what Catholicism, theoretical cosmology and licking asses have in common, there’s a possibility that the jokes would write themselves, and yet many would remain confused, wracking their brains and softly punching their genitals in consternation, trying to find the elusive connective material between the three. When a solution began to present itself, I would introduce mutant bees that sting with the power of a hundred aphrodisiacs, and then, just to put the cherry on top of the metaphorical anus of meaning, and to continue to defy the agile tongue of understanding, I would tell you that you can’t transubstantiate into a living pig without some complications. Then, I would tickle you until you peed your pants. The look on your face at that exact moment would be the same look you would have during your reading of Janitor of Planet Anilingus by Andrew Wayne Adams. Like me, you also wouldn’t be able to put the book down until you had completely devoured this smart, hilarious, and completely bizarre story.
Writing with a wit and wisdom that defies the seemingly crass subject matter, Adams brilliantly executes one of the best satirical novellas I’ve seen in a long time. The universe is filled with planets that cater to very specific sexual acts, all run by a bureaucratic Catholic Church from their headquarters on the sun. There are legends of an old era, an existence that wasn’t ruled by the church and not every waking moment was dedicated to sexual fetishism and debauchery (outside of Lent, of course). Nobody knows what happened to make things the way they are, and Adams deftly works this central idea into an epic mystery that underlies the entirety of the book. His prose sings with a combination of perfectly crafted comedy and dire science fiction, with a great witty edge that cuts to the heart of religion, sex, class and any number of other subjects central to the status quo. This is a manuscript that doesn’t mind wondering aloud “Does love exist? What is the nature of existence?” while throwing a poop joke and a load of raunchy sex acts at the reader without batting an eye.
The characters are fun, and easy to identify with, especially the titular hero, Jack. When Jack, the only person on the planet, left to clean up the mess during Lent, finds that he is not alone, things begin to go absolutely insane. Nimue, the unnaturally speedy and strange woman from the water, Jack’s boss Bishop Eichmann, who appears from the ground as a pile of holy debris and Virgil, a dangerous man working for a mysterious behind-the-scenes power structure add so much colorful character to the cast, it’s almost criminal. The shifting alliances and over-the-top comedy of these characters propel the action of this book, and somehow Adams is able to keep everything consistent and driven, despite the madness. There are some obvious parallels here as well between Janitor of Planet Anilingus and other works. Like Dante’s Virgil of the Inferno, Jack’s Virgil leads him through a sort of hell. Toward the end of the book, tropes from the Alien films and other sci-fi classics are turned inside out and exploded. There are plenty of the usual bizarro genre gross-out moments (such as the symptoms from what might or might not be an STD) but they’re written so hilariously that the reader can’t wait to see what’s next, scatologically speaking. I can not say enough about how much fun I had reading this book, and would suggest that anyone who wants to laugh until they poop themselves pick this up post-haste.
By Spike Marlowe
November is just around the corner. This also means Eraserhead Press is about to decide which of this year’s New Bizarro Authors are going to have the opportunity to work with them again in the future.
I thought it would be fun and informative to interview this years’ authors, both so I could better get to know them, and so you could get to know them, too.
If you like what you read here, I highly encourage you to check out the authors’ books NOW. This is the last month that the New Bizarro Authors’ sales are counted as part of their sales quota in order to become full on bizarro authors.
A lot of children’s literature is pretty bizarro, so it was probably something like that. I’m not sure, really. I have terrible amnesia.
2. Do you have any phobias?
Social phobia. This seems to have gotten better, though, over the years. But it still lurks around quite a bit. I try to just imagine people in their underwear, or in their bondage masks, or whatever. But yeah, anyone who talks to me, you should know that I am probably on the verge of vomiting on you out of sheer discomfort.
If I puke on you and you still want to be my friend, that’s how I know you’re special.
Also, I’m afraid of death.
3. What’s the strangest real life bizarro experience you’ve had?
Life itself! But if I have to pick one: Being in the military. That was pretty weird. I thought it would be funny to join, so I did. Basically I joined a cult, because that’s what the military is. I had always wanted to join a cult! I got brainwashed, turned into a killing machine. Actually, I worked in an office and drank coffee. I was a coffee machine. But they still brainwashed me, I swear. They made me strip nude and yelled at me. I no longer knew who I was. I was not me. I was THEM. I was a satellite dish.
4. Kafka or lemon crepes?
5. The pigs and chickens you gave Justin Grimbol and I at BizarroCon after your Janitor of Planet Anilingus reading last year were very salty. How do you account for this?
That is a special seasoning known as “fear” which certain plastic animals secrete when they are in line to get rung up at the cash register of the toy store.
6. Do you dream in dubstep?
I do. How did you know? Dubstep pretty much defines me. In fact, I have to end the interview here, because I realize that there’s no point in saying anything more, when all I have to say is “dubstep” and there I am. That’s me.
by Andrew Wayne Adams
The boy felt sick. Something he ate. He stared at the table, not at the girl across from him. On his plate, whatever had made him sick—the half-eaten peas, the half-eaten ham, the half-eaten peaches and cream—was laughing silently at him. He pushed the plate aside.
The girl stabbed her fork into his peaches and cream. He wanted to warn her. She was too quick, already chewing… a dribble of cream turning clear on her lip…
Maybe it wasn’t the peaches and cream, he hoped.
She made a face.
It was the peaches and cream.
The boy held his belly. He said, “It’s not my fault. I’m sorry.”
The girl stabbed her knife into her belly. She opened herself from pubis to sternum, reached in, and pulled out the bag of her stomach. She sliced the bag open; gastric juice poured out. She reached in, scooped out the peaches and cream, and started raking clean the walls, her long nails (painted red) scraping the tissue raw. She let the peaches and cream fall to the floor, where it landed in an unexplained dog bowl that was dirty.
“All better,” she said, and put her voided stomach on the table. “The difference between you and me is, when I have an issue, I address it directly. I won’t just sit and suffer.”
The boy said, “Suffering is sweet!”
The girl passed out due to being disemboweled. Her face hit the table, right where her stomach was, and the stomach made a sound like a whoopee cushion. She was beautiful and empty.
Wincing in gastrointestinal distress, the boy slid off his seat, down to the floor. He pulled the dirty dog bowl close and lowered his face to it.
Andrew Wayne Adams has, in fact, actually eaten both peaches and cream. He wrote a book called Janitor of Planet Anilingus. He now lives in Portland where he is happy and successful.