It’s The Hangover meets The Book of Revelation in one of the funniest bizarro fiction novels of the year.
God, a single father, is forced to move back home with his parents. He really just wants to focus on writing his indie rock zine and escape the responsibility of being the Supreme Being, which can be a real drag. He’s also got a mean older brother who never left home and never stopped tormenting God or humanity by interfering in events throughout history. Now, God finds out the bastard’s built himself a time machine. As visions of an apocalyptic future come to God’s attention, he devises a foolproof plan to stop his mean older brother from destroying the world… then gets so drunk he forgets what the plan is.
“Whether he’s scribbling on napkins, writing online, or penning fiction, G. Arthur Brown is interested in taking the world we think we know, cracking it open, slathering it with weirdness, and twisting it into odd shapes–which, surprisingly, resemble the world more accurately than the world we wish we had. Brown’s a prime example of how the weird and the bizarre can provide an active and irreverent critique of the real. This is fiction that’s fun to read and yet deeply resonant.” – Brian Evenson, author of A Collapse of Horses
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“Syntactically immaculate.” – Jeremy Robert Johnson, Author of Skullcrack City
The Korean War. It lasted three years. Or it never ended. Probably one of those. Maybe it ran as long as the ratings were high. Monroe’s an army doctor who just wants to know what’s going on: why the days seem to repeat, why his C.O. is mentioning the VC in 1951, why his houseboy is a kimchee zombie, why there’s a parasitic mollusk up his nose. His compatriots Trip and Lee are no help, when one seems psychopathic and the other becomes convinced he doesn’t really exist. In fact, there’s something wrong with Monroe’s entire world and only a trip into the art-obsessed mind of God can provide any answers. If God forgets the plot, who is left to make sure the story has an end?
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A certain other blogger has been making a lot of claims about Bizarro recently, most of which are highly exaggerated or outright falsehoods. In the interest of giving some positive clarity to the matter, as well as some actual history, I’ve decided to put together just a couple of blog posts about it. If any of the information I give here is inaccurate, PLEASE do not hesitate to contact me to correct the info.
That being said… where do we start?
A lot of people start with a seemingly simple question:
WHAT IS BIZARRO?
That’s a good question, but it’s not a simple question to answer, and that answer is inextricably tied to the origins and development of the Bizarro scene. The most basic attempt to give a guideline (and a guideline is far more important than a dictionary definition here) is this: Bizarro is the literary equivalent of the cult movie section of a local video store. This is a section full of lots of different, off-kilter, and genuinely strange movies by filmmakers like John Waters, David Lynch, Takashi Miike, Alejandro Jodorowsky, Jan Svankmajer, David Cronenberg, Guy Maddin, Lloyd Kaufman, Terry Gilliam, and Yorgos Lanthimos.
That covers a lot of territory and some people find that confusing – everything from surreal art-house to low-budget shock films – but it’s hard to make it any clearer in less than a thousand words of explanation. Recently, when I used that rule of thumb, the person asking responded that this guideline was “uselessly broad.” And I responded, “Well if American Psycho, The Wolf Man, Dead Alive, Jacob’s Ladder, Scream, Shaun of the Dead, Jaws, Videodrome, and Critters are all the same genre, how usefully narrow is that?”
EVERY genre is extremely broad, and until you understand the associated elements and the aesthetic you won’t get it. All Bizarro could be classified in other genres, though not necessarily in a way that’s sensible. Just like one person might argue that American Werewolf in London is a Comedy movie first and a Horror movie second, or that Bone Tomahawk is a Western first and Horror second, Bizarro is one particular metric that overlaps with a lot of other genres. And that metric is WEIRDNESS. If the appeal of something is that it is entertainingly weird, then it is Bizarro. Period. Regardless of whatever other elements are in play from any other genre or style. A lot of Bizarro is trangressive, or surreal, or absurd, or grotesque, or perverse, or incorporates horrific elements, but none of these have ever been required for a book to be considered Bizarro, only weirdness.
Is a category of weird books useful? If you don’t think so, then Bizarro may not be for you. This is a category that didn’t necessarily happen by design – just like Lynch didn’t decide at the outset to be a cult filmmaker – but it is also not something that happened by accident. Bizarro coalesced when a tiny group of writers and small presses noticed there was a growing amount of hard-to-classify underground lit that shared some similarities. There were “Horror” authors whose work was far more weird than scary, and often darkly humorous. There were authors writing with elements of Sci-Fi that focused less on the science and more on the general weirdness of the world it allowed them to create. There were authors doing almost experimental literature that was too low-brow to be taken seriously in the academic scene and used genre elements that ghetto-ized it. And they looked around to more popular authors who were hard-to-classify like Kurt Vonnegut, Tom Robbins, Roald Dahl, or Joe Lansdale, and they decided that not only was there already a genre of weird in existence, but it needed a label so that people who were into weird stuff could find it more easily.
So three presses got together and decided to brand their releases as Bizarro. It was extremely small at first, mainly limited to authors already involved with Eraserhead, Raw Dog Screaming, or the now defunct Afterbirth Books. This was 2005, when “Bizarro” was picked as the genre tag for all these previously misclassified books. Those first Bizarro authors had already been writing Bizarro since the early 2000s or even the 90s, but they’d never had a name for it. They’d never had a convenient way to communicate to readers what their stuff was all about. Bizarro, as a label, changed that.
Now, for a lot of authors whose work doesn’t fit into traditional genres, Bizarro provides a haven and an opportunity to reach an audience that they may not have known existed before there was a rallying point, a short hand, a brand name. I didn’t set out to write Bizarro. I know that I am not alone. I started out just writing stories that were too weird to get accepted by the Fantasy, Science Fiction, Horror, and Lit markets I’d been submitting them to. I was getting rejected because I was submitting to the wrong places, not realizing how bizarre my work was by core genre standards. When I found Bizarro, I found the appropriate market for my work. And I was way late in the game compared to progenitors like Carlton Mellick III, Kevin L. Donihe, John Edward Lawson, D. Harlan Wilson, or Gina Ranalli. But I came to Bizarro the same way they did: seeking an outlet for a voice too weird to make it in other markets. If I hadn’t found Bizarro, I might have eventually given up on ever getting published. You can only take so many rejections before you feel like your work must suck. And it’s very hard to tell, especially with form rejections, if the problem is the quality of your work or that you aren’t writing what the markets are looking for. If no other market is looking for your work, YOU are probably Bizarro.
Now, when I first heard of Bizarro and started to look into what it was about circa 2009, I was immediately skeptical. I looked around and got the impression that it was the paperback equivalent of Troma films and IN-YOU-FACE Gwar videos dripping with green hog semen. But this was not accurate. There were those books, don’t get me wrong, and I’m not shitting on authors who write those kinds of books, but at the time it seemed to me that my weird was different from their weird.
I started to explore some Bizarro books and I was pleasantly blown away. The genre was incredibly diverse, and even titles that screamed GONZO SLIME EXPLOITATION were actually books that defied my expectations. There was something going on in this scene much deeper than superficial shock humor. There was an undercurrent of weirdness that ran through this material, from one end of the spectrum to the other. There were weird children’s books and weird romances. There were incredibly well written books with cuss words in the title. It was hard for me to process. But once I got it, I had found my home.
From the time I got involved in Bizarro in 2012, the scene has only grown more diverse, more vibrant, and more creative. If anyone tells you anything else they are selling something. There are still plenty of shockingly extreme titles to choose from, as well as fabulously weird magical realism, weird noir, pop culture absurdity, high-brow strangeness, and even absurd Bizarro erotica that you can’t imagine anyone jilling off to. There are so many flavors of weird here, I can hardly believe it.
And in closing the section, I’d like to visually list just a few TOTALLY BODACIOUS AND RADICALLY IN YOUR FACE TITLES that came out in the last five years, showing definitively that the Bizarro scene is not dead, oh no it’s not.
by G. Arthur Brown
(An average family American 1960 sits at an average family table for an average dinner. Eugene Ionesco is not among them. FATHER sits at one side of the table dressed like an American father 1960. MOTHER sits at another side of the table dressed like an American mother 1960. GIRL sits at another side of the table dressed like an American daughter 1960. DOCTOR sits another side of the table dressed like an American American doctor 1960. Thomas, dressed like an average American son 1960, sits in his dorm room one thousand miles away. They chat before eating.)
Girl: Doctor, I am led to believe—
Doctor: How are you led, my dear, by rope?
Girl: By road signs, sir. They tell me, the road signs, that you are working on a technique to separate mother from prenatal child.
Doctor: Well, it is quite difficult, you know, to separate the best mothers from the best children because they never even meet. Sometimes living thousands of miles apart. At this point I’m devising a maneuver to prevent any mother from ever coming in to contact with a child, hers or otherwise.
Father: Quite remarkable!
Mother: Then why not remark?
Father: I’m afraid I’ve no ink.
Girl: Won’t it be brilliant to have babies one never even has to see!
Father: That reminds me. I had a telephone call today from Eugene Ionesco.
Doctor: Indeed, and what did he say?
Father: I’m really not quite sure.
Mother: Oh, darling, but you speak French quite well.
Father: Yes, I speak French, but I cannot hear it. So to me it was just as a dead line… nothing at all.
Doctor: What a thing! What a sad loss.
Father: Oh, I don’t know about that. Now I am aware that all these years when I thought the line was dead, no one there, it was really Eugene Ionesco calling with his words of encouragement, or derision, or indifference. One of the three, I suspect.
Doctor: And you can’t tell us anything about what he had to say?
Father: He was wearing a derby hat.
Doctor: Why do you suppose that?
Father: You just now asked me to.
Mother: His favorite fish is herring.
Girl: Eugene Ionesco’s favorite fish is herring!
Mother: No, your older brother Thomas’ favorite fish is herring. I didn’t realize we were still talking about Eugene Ionesco.
(Offstage a phone rings.)
(The family sits in the sitting room. Each member sits on a different stick of furniture. MOTHER sits on a tall bar stool. FATHER sits on a short step stool. DAUGHTER sits on a tuffet. DOCTOR sits on a surgical table with elaborate ivory inlay.)
Doctor: (To Daughter) I’m going to have to hit you in the face. Don’t blame me. Blame my methods and the men who invented them.
Daughter: Oh! Isn’t it so exciting to take part in medicine!
Doctor: (Approaches Daughter and punches her in the face, knocking her from her tuffet). I think we have once again proven the science always works.
Daughter: (Weeping) I’m glad I was subjected to that.
Father: What a reaction!
Mother: Equal and opposite. I saw it all, right there.
Doctor: (Writing something on clipboard) I was about to renounce the calling entirely.
Mother: What changed your mind?
Doctor: I couldn’t figure out how to get my lab coat off.
Father: Oh, yes! I had another telephone call from Eugene Ionesco today.
Daughter: (Rising, rubbing face, sitting back on tuffet) If you can’t hear his words, it can’t have been interesting.
Father: I wrote it all down. (Rummages in pockets for note) Here it is. He said to me, “I know you think I am Eugene Ionesco. But I am not him. I am not even a man. I am your Aunt Bernice. We need to discuss your mother’s estate.”
Mother: Well, that sounds just like something Ionesco would say.
Doctor: Did he have an accent?
Father: You might as well ask, “If I hang it on a wall, is it art?”
Daughter: You put all my drawings on the door of the refrigerator.
Father: But our walls are full.
Mother: What else are we to do?
Father: There is just too much art to fit it all on our walls. I’ve had the hardest time getting the Sistine Chapel ceiling on our own meager ceiling.
Doctor: But if it is on the ceiling, is it art?
Daughter: (Considers question with finger over lips) It’s not on the wall.
Mother: Nor is it on the refrigerator. Oh, Husband, I’m scared!
Father: (Rises and embraces mother) Why does Ionesco put us through this, time after time? Hasn’t our faith been shaken sufficiently?
Doctor: Which reminds me. Mother, I’m going to have to hit you in face.
(Lights fade. Curtains)
(Family stands around a circular table with a punch bowl at its center. If a punch bowl is unavailable, a punch fountain will do. DOCTOR has his stethoscope pressed to his abdomen. MOTHER wears a conical paper hat. FATHER eyes the telephone surreptitiously. SALLY holds her doll.)
Doctor: They are in there, my friends. My friends are in there.
Sally: In your intestines?
Doctor: I have a phantom womb where I am letting them stay for the weekend.
Mother: That’s peculiar.
Father: Are your friends phantoms as well?
Doctor: As well as what?
Father: As well as being your friends, are they phantoms?
Doctor: Shall I ask them?
Sally: (Writes a quick note on a paper tablet and tears it out, begins folding the paper) Swallow this. They can respond at their leisure.
Mother: I worry that this type of paper won’t taste so very good. Pepper it first and wash it down with punch.
Doctor: I have pepper in my pocket of course, but where might I acquire the punch?
Sally: (Grinning) I’ll take care of that part.
Doctor: Ah, thank you ever so much. (Peppers note. Places in mouth, chews, gags)
Sally: Here it comes! (Punches doctor in the mouth)
Doctor: Ah! (Falls backward)
Mother: Looks as though it has gone down.
Father: Did the punch work, Doctor?
Doctor: (Rises, rubbing his belly) Yes. But it went down the wrong way.
Father: So your enemies will be getting the message instead of your friends?
Doctor: Probably. I’ve been letting my enemies stay in my spleen.
Mother: (Changes subject) It’s getting late. It is almost no longer my birthday.
Sally: You shall have to call him, Father.
Father: (Dials phone) Eugene Ionesco? You are once again late for my wife’s birthday party. The punch is here. (Pauses) It’s in a bowl. (Pauses) It’s in a silver bowl, or possibly a fountain. You’ll have to ask the crew about that bit. (Pauses) You’ll be here later? What time? (Pauses) What do you mean I have the wrong number? (Hangs up)
Mother: It wasn’t him?
Father: No, it was him. But he refuses to attend any birthday parties where there are an incorrect number of candles on the birthday cake.
Mother: (Stammering in fright) I… I… I… c-can fix it! (Pulls packet of small mutli-colored candles from pocket, spilling the contents onto the floor)
Father: (Ominously) It’s too late. He knows.
G. Arthur Brown is a jerk who publishes his own work, but it’s his birthday, so please forgive him. The three acts of A Phone Call from Ionesco appear in his flash fiction collection I Like Turtles. He will spend the majority of 2015 as a 38-year-old. God help him.
Lazar Jones. Lazar Jones. LAZAR JONES! We’ve all heard the buzz, but most of us are probably thinking that everyone is talking about this guy:
Turns out THIS IS NOT LAZAR JONES.
But THIS is:
Family resemblance? A home DNA test will be the judge.
Recently this tantalizing little ebook appeared on my radar: After School Ball Busting Babes #1 (also at Smashwords and Barnes and Noble). It was advertised to be 99 cents, which made me wonder how good it could possibly be. But since I had just spent my last 99 cents on a bit of overdone mutton (which, in retrospect, was not a wise choice), I didn’t buy it. Miraculously a free copy arrived in my email box, and I swear, I’ll get around to reading it ANY MINUTE NOW. But the mystique surrounding the book’s lustful author would not let me sleep at night, so I, G. Arthur Brown, took some time out of my busy Horatio Hornblower marathon to meet up with the myth that is Lazar Jones. Was he really raised by feral parents as the legend has it? Is he really as tall as George W. Washington? Can he write porn worth reading? I could read his blog to find out, but I decided to meet up with Lazar in his ramshackle farm house in Hayes, Kansas to get the scoop.
I arrived at a rundown house decorated like a bachelor pad on a Diff’rent Strokes/Three’s Company crossover episode. Lazar’s taste was exquisite, with nothing but the finest prints of sad clowns and poker-playing dogs adoring his walls, and deep pile shag padding his floors. He took me into a little room that I can only describe as a kitchen-dungeon (or dungkitchen, as the kids will be calling it). Then he asked me to sit on a stool, the sort that usually comes with a funny conical paper hat. I told him I preferred to stand, and began the interview process, which went something like:
GAB: Okay, Lazar. Tell me a little about yourself.
LJ: Well, I’m a gambler for the most part. Shuttlecock and blood sports are my drugs of choice. Also, I’m a compulsive liar. One time, a feral pit bull chased me down the street and I was inspired to write a story about a feral pit bull moving to Vegas and starting a family. That’s when I knew I could make a living as a writer. Sorry, I meant badminton. Shuttlecocks are what you use in badminton.
GAB: I’ve heard they have other uses, as well. But moving on, where did you meet up with this life changing pit bull?
LJ: Trinidad, Colorado. I was en route to Vegas (that’s Las Vegas, New Mexico, by the way). Had me on the run for near twenty minutes before I remembered my stash of “emergency pizza.” Circled around back to the car, sacrificed one of my pant legs (and a lot of skin) while I rooted around in the glove compartment, then promptly blew the mongrel’s brains out. The glove compartment’s where I keep the gun. Then I limped to the trunk and had a slice of victory pizza. Wish I hadn’t eaten it because I could have used a slice later on, but that’s a story for another time.
GAB: Fascinating. Is Las Vegas, NM like the little sister of Las Vegas, Nevada? Can I gamble there and make more money? Basically what I’m driving at: do smaller casinos equal less risk to my person if they suspect me of superior math skills, sometimes referred to as “counting cards?”
LJ: I’m glad you asked that, Gary. Honestly, I could not in good conscience recommend the casinos in Las Vegas, NM. For one thing, they don’t use cards—against their religion or something. No, what they use are bleached cow hips, which they toss in the air and call “heads” or “hips.” Then they flip a coin, roll a die, and take your money. I must have played that game a hundred times, sampled every regional variant as well (bleached horse hips, bleached mule hips, department store mannequin hips), and I didn’t earn a dime. No, if you want to make money gambling, I would just stick to armed robbery. Also, Elko, Nevada.
GAB: I’ve never heard of such a crazy game, but I’m going to assume you wouldn’t lie to me in an interview. That would be like pissing on the Bible while chanting something in Latin, or listening to Milli Vanilli while looking into a photo of the haunting green eyes of the dead one…Vanilli?
LJ: You mean Rob Pilatus? Better not be talking shit about Rob Pilatus. I was raised Armenian Orthodox, so I find the very nature of this conversation offensive.
GAB: Um… moving on. How did you become seduced into the underworld of pornographic fiction? And how can my children avoid that path?
LJ: Yeah, “seduced” is probably the best word you could use. You ever read any of those Calga Publishers books? “The Adult Version of the Escapades of Caesar” or “The Adult Version of Robin Hood” or “The Adult Version of The Three Musketeers?” Well, my father had a whole stack of those filthy things, and I tell you, it tore our family apart. My mother couldn’t stand it—she was not a strong woman. Now, my older, adopted sister on the other hand—THERE was a woman. She taught me how to pee standing up, gave me my first erection, and introduced me to the wide world of testicular torment. If she’d been just a little bit less smart, we might have gotten married. Fortunately, she lives in Honolulu with her snorkeling instructor boyfriend and the two of them are very happy. I don’t know WHERE in Honolulu per sé, but I digress. Writing porn reminds me of my childhood. Memories are the basis of narrative and the one active ingredient in time travel. I am convinced that, by writing enough of smut, I can go back in time and alter my past. I will make my family happy—I need to believe that I can help them, even if it’s already far too late. Also, I got rent to pay. The thing is, you can’t tell children what to be—you have to guide them toward discovering who they already are. Nurture plays a role, certainly, but at their core, some children are meant to be smut writers and some are meant to be actuaries.
GAB: That was just a test. I don’t have any children. Am I doing something wrong, do you think? I put my Winkie in her Lulu, but no baby comes out. I imagine you are a specialist in the baby-making field. Here—have a look at my Winkie and tell me if it looks functional.
LJ: I’m actually sterile, so, you know. And THAT’S just a picture of a pit bull.
GAB: Yes, another test! Winkie here was the very pit bull from your Trinidad, CO tale. He misses you very much. He cherishes your pant leg.
LJ: Oh snap. I always suspected that I was attacked by one of those Forever Dogs in Trinidad, but no one believed me. “There’s no such thing as immortal, quantum leaping dogs,” they said. Well nuts to that—up yours, Conan O’Brien. You look like a fucking idiot now.
GAB: Oh, that reminds me. There was a rumor going around that Karl A. Fischer was going to interview you. Do you know why that arrangement went south?
LJ: Who? Oh. Yeah, he was being problematic. Something about kidnapping his loved ones and denying him food. The head doesn’t always know what’s in the heart, know what I’m saying? But yeah, he’s in my trunk.
GAB: Is that a metaphor?
LJ: Haha, like “junk in the trunk?” Haha, classic. But seriously, your friend or whatever is tied up in the trunk of my Pontiac. I don’t know how long a person can go without water, but I suspect it’s less than ninety hours.
GAB: The rule of thumb is 72 hours. But let me check my handbook. Ah, yes. Anything over 80 is generally fatal. How long have you had the young man in there?
LJ: Well, it’s noon here. February 8th, right? Possibly ten minutes. Hard to say. Does having an enormous johnson make one MORE or LESS susceptible to dying of dehydration?
GAB: I wouldn’t imagine that’s a very relevant factor in Karl’s case, but let me check the handbook again. “Not of significant consequence” it claims. I’ll tell you what would be fascinating: let’s get him out here and see what he has to say about the whole experience.
LJ: Oh, well alright, if you think that would make for a more captivating interview. Hold on a sec, let me just go out to the shed.
GAB: I thought he was in your trunk.
LJ: I have him in a trunk, in a Pontiac, which I keep in a shed. It was a bundled package.
Lazar left for a moment and returned with Karl A. Fischer, mostly naked, blindfolded and gagged. It was my opinion at the time that he had been mistreated by Jones, but without a full investigation, I couldn’t be sure. I was certain of one thing, though. Fischer’s johnson was average in size, and turning blue from the strangulating bonds. Jones then undid that particular binding, and Fischer heaved an audible sigh of relief. A playful slap was given to the shaven scrotum of the cowering man.
LJ: Okay, I’ve untied the ropes around his wrist, ankles, and johnson, but I’m keeping him tethered to the fridge. Not sure if I should take the gag out, though.
GAB: Quick, Karl! I’ve tricked Lazar into releasing you now’s your chance!
Still blindfolded, Fischer took off running toward my voice, but his tether was only a yard long, tripping him. He smashed his face gracefully into the linoleum flooring. I couldn’t help but admire the wonderfully intricate floral pattern of the linoleum. It reminded me of my grandmother’s house. All the times I was locked in the guest room while she played with my Star Wars figures. The good years before she went batty.
GAB: Just kidding! It’s a little joke me and Lazar cooked up before the interview. Okay, Lazar, you can put him back in the trunk now.
Upon attempting to apprehend his fallen captive, Lazar experienced a reversal of fortunes.
LJ: Ow! Sonofabitch hit me with his johnson, karate chopped the tether, and took off!
GAB: Sometimes one gets away. Oh well. I’m sure highway patrol will pick him up soon, seeing as he’s naked with the words FUCK PIG written on him in shoe polish.
LJ: He smacked me right in the eye! I don’t even understand how he did that. Christ, we spent hours capturing him. And I spent hours drinking until I forgot that you helped me capture him so that we could do this interview.
GAB: So, tell us all about your latest release, After-Life Gals Breaking Through the Thresholds of the Spheres.
LJ: Do you mean After School Ball Busting Babes #1?
GAB: Ah, yes. My bad. My mistake. My bad mistake. So tell us what the spooky ghosts in this story do to the unsuspecting lad that stumbles into their haunted abode.
LJ: That’s really not what happens at all. It’s about a club for sexy coeds who enjoy ball busting, domination, and CBT. In this first installment, one of the girls entices her asshole boyfriend to attend a meeting and they work him over. Despite the pain, he discovers how much he enjoys it, although the story isn’t really about him.
GAB: Is this tale based on personal experience?
LJ: What is “personal experience” anyway? The late, great Philip K. Dick asked us to question the very nature of reality and the various ideas that make it seem immutable.
GAB: Oh…kay… And by CBT, you clearly mean Cognitive Behavior Therapy, yes?
LJ: I hadn’t considered what any of the girls in the story might be majoring in, but psychology seems like a great choice. But no, CBT stands for Cock and Ball Torture.
GAB: And this tidbit of indecency that you’ve written, is it to be the first of many?
LJ: With a title like “#1” how could I not? I dream of having ten different installments of After School Ball Busting Babes, two collections, and a blog filled with outrageous free smut. I’ve already paid my cover artist by finishing a sordid tale by the name of “Sock Party” for him. The artist, by the way, is a gentleman and fellow pervert by the name of Knave—you should check him out.
GAB: I heard he stole some tarts, but other than that, I’m unfamiliar with his work.
LJ: He is a fetish cartoonist and purveyor of ballbusting and orgasm denial illustrations. (http://ballbustingcartoons.com/)
GAB: What was this “Sock Party” you mentioned?
LJ: Sock Party was sort of upsetting to write because it’s about a shrimpy brother who gets busted by his sister’s friends at a slumber party. It ends with testicular rupturing. Not pretty. What I really want is to write a story called Wizard Buster, a comedic fantasy wherein evil wizards maintain the source of their power in their “magic balls” and it’s up to a wandering, voluptuous, badass heroine to bust them for the safety of her kingdom.
GAB: I think that’s something we all can believe in. The opposition to sexual perversion seems to lie mainly in the fact that it is perceived to be frivolous and impractical. But if a creep’s foot fetish could save the Olympics from terrorists, then maybe all that would change. Would you ever write a story in which a creep with a foot fetish manages to save the Olympics from terrorists? And what royalty split could I get on that?
LJ: Exactly! I would definitely write that story. And I would silence you to keep the earnings all to myself. I am not a well man.
GAB: In that case, I shan’t lower you into the well. Is there anything else you would like to say? Perhaps in case this is used as evidence in criminal proceedings?
LJ: I won’t suggest that not spending a mere 99 cents on my work will result in an unmitigated tragedy, but I will suggest that it could be smartest dollar you ever spent. If Karl is reading this, possibly because of truck stop wifi or unusually lenient arresting officers, just know that I didn’t mean to hurt you.
GAB: Well, I think that about says it all. You are clearly a genius with a good heart, and a true leader for a generation of kids who grew up without fathers or—even worse—without Xbox. Every time I read Artificial Ballstrade Bob #1, I will think of Rob Pilatus’s haunting eyes, and how much you like punching nuts.
LJ: Hugs, not drugs, Mr. Brown
GAB: Don’t I know it. Hugs killed Philip Seymour Hoffman. Not a doubt in my mind. I’m glad you said it and not me.
LJ: I am the eternal scapegoat. The government actually pays me for it
Pee Baby: The Musical, from G. Arthur Brown’s debut novel Kitten!
For more about Pee Baby: The Musical and a contest to win free Pee Baby t-shirts and other great prizes, CLICK HERE! You can even win a free copy of Janitor of Planet Anilingus by Andrew Wayne Adams, signed by G. Arthur Brown.