Actions speak louder than words. So the best description of this book would be to pick it up, crack it open, and start rolling one’s eyeballs across the words. Or, should one be a slave to technology, download it, and begin scrolling from the top down. With either method euphoria will be experienced in approximately 232 pages or an elapsed one hour and forty-five minutes, whichever comes first. This book is everything you want it to be, and more. It’s your faithful hound at your feet. It’s the lover who never leaves angry. It’s an elixir for eternal youth. You’ll have experienced some transformation along the way. It’s difficult to speculate, exactly, on what that transformation might be. It might not even be palpable for weeks after you’ve finished the book. In many ways, you could associate it with an STD. But who’s to say if that’s a positive or negative thing in this crazy old mixed martial arts throw down we call “life?” There, I’ve said it. If that doesn’t boil it down to simple, relatable facts, nothing more that I can spew out will. Now grasp it firmly and become one.
Sultry fornicators and cutthroat greed fuel the hearts of the lovelorn castaways that inhabit an industry on the wane. Sin is the only coping mechanism. Lust stokes the fire. Skulduggery wets the log. Distilled spirits help bridge yesterday into tomorrow. When the smoke clears, everyone is guilty, and virtue is the corpse.
BOOK SUMMARY Before there was man, before there was woman there was bowling. Against a backdrop of urban upheaval and familial tumult, Rich Roeb and Barbara Stewart-Ridge used their fingers as an impetus to roll their souls into a long-term, lip locked, perfect game. Against great odds, and despite often being on the gutter side of Karma, their love would not be denied. They were meant to be, and bowl, as one.
Windswept terrain. Dubious passion. Safe words fallen on deaf ears. It was a town on the edge of promise without the ability to navigate the stars. One man stood above the rest, but he figured out how to leave a hundred years ago. The rest coexisted, though only out of spite. Through sheer determination, one family risked it all without really trying. It was Life in Dearth.
Two men of different ages are of the same hypnotic coccyx bent. Mouths fall agape wherever they hone their craft in public. They could bring a town to its knees in a matter of waist swiveling minutes or a sturdy woman to her knees with a vampish snarl of the lip. Together they made a city where lives collectively live to grotesque excess look like an amateur. They were Brothers in Pelvis.
How does a person with essentially no friends in real life amass hundreds of viral friends on Twitter and Facebook? Basically, by telling it like it is and saying what needs to be said. And, as always, incorporate sex whenever possible. Here then, one disgruntled loner’s crusade to see how many others he can actually amass as “friends” through the two most popular social networking sites currently the rage in this, the era of interpersonal demise of the Homo sapien. He started at zero friends using an assumed moniker of “Eman Lluf” (what it lacked in creativity it made up for with Balkan mystique). Between the two me-centric cyber outposts, Eman Lluf garnered over 2,400 of these seemingly coveted social networking relationships simply by churning out random hyperbole on par with the journal musings of a mental patient. In the spirit of full disclosure, at some point “he” became a “she,” but no one really questioned the metamorphisis. In fact, in this day and age, it’s almost expected. Crude? Perhaps. Sophomoric? Almost a certainty. Welcome to literature in the 21st Century. And while 2,400 or so might not seem like a grand number to an adolescent who takes on more superficial social networking friends than she takes breaths in a month, or to the Ashton Kutchers of the world, it’s a pretty respectable number granted Eman Lluf doesn’t really exist at all.
Whether youre seven or seventy, if youve ever been deep in love, or alone and ostracized, its all right here! Fiona Mahoney, Battle Creek, MI The maestro of the ninety-minute novel! I love to read things I dont have to think about. Again, and again, and again. Lucius Ferguson, WeHo, CA It reads the same backwards as it does forwards. Im not saying its Satanic, Im just applauding the gimmick. Daffny Deslauriers, USVI This was, like, everything I ever thought but never had the heart to say. I also dont own any word processing software. Or a computer. Chas Katvic, Chicago, IL
Is there anything sweeter than a sequel? If a subsistence on culture derived solely from the creative offerings ground out by the Hollywood sausage machine has taught us anything, its this: you cant beat a dead joke horse too hard, too long, or too often. And thus, the continuing exploits of Americas Trailer Dwelling Disgruntled Heroine, Eman Lluf, are revisited in this no-cusswords-barred tome guaranteed to rattle the rafters of your thalamus until youre found helplessly fetal on the public pavement shrieking, Please stop! Should you read between the lines, maybe theres a killer love story in there somewhere, too.