Jon Konrath - Thunderbird (book)
KON!!!!! You fiend! Another one? Already? It’s well-documented that I only read while shitting, and a new book from my favorite author every handful of months means a vicious cycle of binge-eating and rampant defecation that has me one Bacon Habanero Quarter Pounder away from cardiac arrest. I was 175 lbs. of solid muscle when Psycho began his publishing career. Now I can only score with chicks who have an inner-thigh boil fetish. I think it’s time Jon financed a personal trainer for his biggest fan (literally and figuratively speaking), or at least got me a pallet of that military-grade Lipozene that killed Pete Steele. Truthfully, there are worse ways to get fat. The second I opened Thunderbird and saw chapters titled “Hate-Fucking Shrimp Platters on Groundhog Day,” “Bearded Women Shitting on Glass Tables Is Sort of My Thing,” “Just Because I’m a Pisces Doesn’t Mean I Want to Watch You Eat a Whale Fucker Sandwich,” and “Death Metal Taco Bell,” much like Rafael Carlos Revel, I was able to see the future, and it involved many nights of my legs falling asleep on the porcelain throne ahead. I didn’t know how Psycho was going to top 2012’s Sleep Has No Master. Come to find out, he doesn’t have to. All he needs to do is maintain the untouchable level he’s already reached, and with this new tome he’s done just that. (That’d be like me trying to enhance masturbation by doing the David Carradine when I already get that perfect Peter North load every time just by using John Smoltz’ split-finger fastball grip.) Konrath’s fiction is absurdist delight. These stories are funnier than rear-view motorcycle accidents and more disturbing than watching someone chew lettuce thoroughly. I’m actually tired of talking about how good this guy is. Chances are if you aren’t aware of his talent by now, you’re too much of a douchebag to deserve experiencing it. The only thing holding Thunderbird back is an alarming number of typos. This book has more errors than a Chicago Cubs infield. Kon needs to kidnap one of those Jewish kids from the national spelling bee and harvest it for copy editing and/or the sex-slave trade. In his defense, portions of this book were written in the back of numerous Uncle Kenny’s Sex Dungeons throughout London and Germany, and we all know the European franchises aren’t always as well lit. Mistakes aside, this is still a can’t-put-it-down read. Lucifer Our Lord funny with frightening attention to detail and a sex drive that’d make Michael Douglas seem gay.
Note: Don’t even think about reading this one on your gold iPhone, you snooty cunt. When you buy the paperback version you get the bonus zombie chapter, and if you’re gay enough to not care… welcome to the world of AIDS.
Note to self: Start Death Metal band called The Shotgun Abortionist.
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