"The best thing I've read since sliced bread!" -Name Withheld
Contained herein are three stories so twisted, they'll make you question your own sanity.
Need proof? See below.
"One food he was curious about was the Fruit that hung from the special tree in the center of the garden. He was very tempted to eat one, just to see what it tasted like, since it looked delicious. But God said no. He was never sure why God said no. Something about how the tree possessed knowledge, and if he ate the fruits that blossomed from it, he would suddenly know things. At first it all sounded a little like science fiction to him, and a lot like bullshit. And so what if he did know things? What was the harm in that? But who was he to question God? Soon, however, he began to believe that maybe there was some truth to this knowledge thing after all. He often caught one of the goats eating a fallen Fruit from the Tree, and he was beginning to believe that the goat was becoming smarter than him. It had even learned how to walk on its hind legs, and was beginning to speak Arabic. This seemed a little too close to evolution, and he was quite surprised that God didn't put a stop to that right away. If this kept up, soon the monkeys may start turning into people. And that was some real messed up stuff. He stared at the Tree. Some day he was going to eat one of those Fruits. He'd be damned if he was going to be outwitted by a goat." -A is for Adam
The lights beaming off the disco ball played tricks with the eye as they danced through Jimmy DiFreno's chest hair. He was quite proud of his chest hair. It was part of his culture to be proud of his chest hair.
He wasn't much to look at. He didn't have the classic chiseled looks of a Rudy Valentino or an Antonio Sabato Jr. One that could make the ladies swoon while simultaneously being a silent killer. No, he had the stereotypical looks of a James Gandolfini: Six-foot-two, two hundred seventy-five pounds, give or take. He knew that if he kept eating the way he did, he would most likely end up like the late great Gandolfini, but boy, did he love his gabagool. And spaghetti and meatballs. And pasta fazool. And pie. You get the picture. Not that he wasn't a good-looking guy in his own way; it's just hard to get people to believe that he wasn't in the mob with his appearance being the way it was. I mean, he was in the mob, in fact, he was the don; I'm just saying he couldn't hide the fact.-B is for Bear
She looked down at the piece of pie on her own plate. It was the shape of a wedge of pie. That's where the comparison ended. The steam rising up from the hot dessert carried with it a stench the likes of which none of you fine people will ever have the misfortune of sniffing. And if you do, may God have mercy on your soul. She dug her fork in, which for some odd reason only had two tines, which made her a little jealous of her brother. Not only did he get what appeared to be the better dessert, he also got the better fork. A squealy, squeaky sound issued forth from the pie as the fork penetrated it. A gunky, snotty sludge the color of used motor oil and old mayonnaise dripped down from where the tines pierced, and blood ran out of the pores where the chocolate chips rested like blackheads on an old man's back. She risked taking a bite, and it tasted like pig meat wrapped in a 100 percent cotton undershirt.-C is for Cookie
Pick up your copy today and see why readers are calling it outlandish. Hysterical. On the brink of lunacy.
A big ol' word-buffet of the familiar and the surreal. You’ll be asking for seconds.
Note: This series does not need to be read in alphabetical order. Mix and match! Trade with friends!
Marc Richard is the 164th most well-known author from Maine.