SO YOU WANT ME TO PIMP YOUR BOOK . . . .

I know how hard it is to pimp your book out there these days. I’ve been doing it myself, so I’m no stranger to putting a lot of effort into something that doesn’t yield a lot of results. It can be pretty maddening.



But we’re all writers, so we have a few things in our favor. Chances are pretty good that you write for a website. Chances are even better that you have your own blog. You probably even have a small following of people who listen to your opinions and take them to heart.


I’m willing to make a deal with you. Send me your book (in PDF form), and I’ll review it on my blog. I’ll post the shit out of that review on my own website and on Twitter, which links to my Facebook. I’ll even post a review on Amazon. In return, I ask that you do the same thing for me. I’ll send you a PDF of my crime novel, STRIP, and you review it on the site you write for. Or your blog. Or Twitter. Drop a little magic on Amazon. Etc.


There’s one drawback: I’m not offering free praise. I’m offering an honest review, and if your book sucks, I’ll mention it. If it’s awesome, I’ll mention that. If there’s room for improvement, I’ll point out where. This isn’t a critique, though; it’s a review. I wouldn’t ask you to suck my dick, so I won’t suck yours. An honest review is all I give and all I ask. One way or the other, word gets out about both of our books. There is no such thing as bad publicity, as they say, or as Oscar Wilde once said, “The only thing worse than being talked about is not being talked about.”


If you’re interested, let me know in the comments below, or email me at editor@talesofquestionabletaste.com.  First come, first serve. If you’re turned off by the possibility of a negative review, don’t be. I promise to be gentle. Besides, how can we grow as writers if we don’t realize there are blind spots in our work? And who am I to be talking like King Shit of Turd Mountain? You can check me out here and decide for yourself: www.talesoquestionabletaste.com.

THE WAR IN REAL LIFE

Hollywood never gets war right. I should know. Back in WWII, I served on a destroyer in the Pacific. I know how it was in real life.


Eh, their hearts are in the right place, I guess. They want to depict the glory and honor with beautiful people who never get too dirty, or too bloody.


But it’s all bullshit. Let me tell you how it really was.


Think about this: a bunch of guys on a ship at sea. No women. And no one wants the others to think he’s queer or something, not in those John Wayne days. But they’ve got a lot of spunk built up. How are they going to get rid of it? And not cumming, by the way, is off the table.


That’s right. A lot of midnight palm parties. Except the bunks were so close that there was the very real possibility of accidentally blowing your load on another man. Me? I was real courteous, like. Always shot off under my blanket. Sure, it led to crusty sheets, but fuck it.


You always wanted the top bunk. That way, if anyone’s getting jizzed on, it’s the fellas under you. That wasn’t a sure thing, though. Some guys were all distance. Vic the Vag could fire a cum bullet and nail a yawner right in the mouth at twenty feet.


I can’t count the times I caught another guy’s cock grease by way of happenstance, but I never got used to that.


You think Henry Fonda ever got squirted by dick jelly?


But never mind that. That’s not what I wanted to tell you about. The thing I really wanted to say was how I survived September 12, 1943. None of us expected to be attacked that day, let me tell you. Intel from the front told us the Japs weren’t anywhere near us. Most of us were watching a stag flick at the time. The fellas who had already seen it were drinking, smoking, or playing cards, maybe even all three.


Me? I was supposed to keep an eye out for the enemy, but I wasn’t too concerned due to the intel. In fact, I had to take a shit something fierce. Nobody’d spot me, so I just left my post.


Can you imagine Randolph Scott needing to shit so bad he had to abandon his duties?


In the latrine, there were no stalls, just a line of toilets where everyone can see everyone else’s business . . . if you cared to look, ya’ nancy. Flushers didn’t work too well, either, so the place never smelled fresh. At the front were sinks and at the back, shower nozzles.


This day I’m talking about, I went into the head and saw two other guys. Lt. Tim Jordan stood in the back, soaping up his scummy body. Somehow he always smelled like bacon and unwiped butt hole. He was handsome enough, I guess, but he had some kind of dick rot going on. I didn’t know who he’d gotten it from, but I prayed never to meet her.


The other guy was Pvt. Philip “Fill ‘Er Up” Peters. He sat on one of the toilets, face red, veins sticking out of his forehead. A low whine came from the back of his throat.


I ignored them both and tried to find a useable toilet. Three were clogged up, one of them containing a turd the size of a Yule log. Two others had been pissed on. I had no choice but to take the one next to Peters.


Before I sat down, I perused the reading material. A dog-eared copy of Ooh-La-La!, a pristine Saturday Evening Post, and a week-old newspaper. I took the Ooh-La-La! and dropped my pants, preparing for what would undoubtedly be a room-crushing dump.


The turd was halfway out my ass when it happened. Something thudded loudly against the destroyer, and we could feel the heavy vibrations through the floor and the toilet seats.


“What the fuck was that?” Jordan asked. He blindly reached for a towel to wipe soap out of his eyes.


I didn’t feel too good about this, so I tried to push the rest of my brown tail out. Before I could begin to strain, the sound came again, and this time the ship shuddered so hard it threw me and Peters off our porcelain thrones. I skidded against the linoleum so hard it burned my skin. When I stopped, I could feel something soft but firm resting on the backs of my legs.


My turd.


Do you think this kind of thing would have ever happened to Bob Mitchum?


“Jesus, Philly! Wipe your ass!”


I looked up to see Jordan had braced himself against the wall. Peters, on the other hand, crouched on all fours, his diarrhea-spattered ass in the air.


The destroyer shook again, and it startled me so much I pushed the rest of my shit out. It rolled toward a wall and squatted there like a disapproving neighbor.


“We gotta’ get outta’ here,” Jordan said. He toweled himself off and went in search of his clothes.


I tried to stand so I could clean myself up, but it happened again. This time, the ship shook so hard the floor tilted. All three of us slipped across the room and hit the wall in a pile.


“Fuck!” Jordan pushed at me. “Get up!”


Him being a superior officer and all, I tried. The destroyer rocked again, and we all slid across the latrine until we hit the opposite wall. This time, I could see Peters and his bare, beshitted ass coming at me. I tried to move out of the way, but there was no time. He slammed up against me, and a jet of diarrhea shot out and nailed me in the face. It got in my nose, my mouth, up under my eyelids. Fetid, rotten shit juice overpowered my senses, and I puked all over Peters.


“Holy Jesus!” Jordan cried. “What the fuck?!”


I could still taste and smell shit, so I retched again, only this time I did it while sliding across the floor a third time as the destroyer rocked again. I left a trail of vomit as I went.


Peters hit a toilet on the way by, but instead of giving him something to hold onto, it broke like the cheap shit it was. He skittered on the floor, clutching the toilet and a bowl full of clogged shit, which spilled out over the edges as it moved. When he hit the wall, the shitter broke open and spat more crap at us.


I dry retched, but Jordan puked out a very colorful lunch all over my head. Blinded by other peoples’ bodily fluids, I tried puking again. Nothing.


The floor tilted so far this time we didn’t slide, we fell. It was like dropping two stories. Something in my knees broke. Later, I was told my knee caps had shattered. At the time, the puke, shit, and now, blood, had all my attention.


At this angle, all the toilets gave up their contents, covering us in lumps of shit and soiled toilet paper. It slicked over us like a second skin. Like layers of cancer.


I don’t imagine Jimmy Stewart ever put up with this.


We didn’t have time to gather our wits. Another explosion, this one bad enough to make all the toilets explode, showering us with brown prizes and shards of porcelain. I don’t know how many ounces of shit and piss I swallowed, but I’m sure my packed mouth resembled those clogged toilets from earlier.


Once again, we flew across the latrine and smacked up against the opposite wall. Peters caught enough shrapnel in his right eye that he later lost it. Also, at some point, all my front teeth got busted out. Maybe I didn’t notice because broken teeth look a lot like shattered toilet pebbles. I don’t know.


Jordan grabbed a showerhead and held on for dear life. I would have done the same thing, but blood and shit got into my eyes, and I spent three seconds of freedom trying to clear my sight.


Another explosion. My world started to tilt again, and I jumped up, reaching desperately for a showerhead. I grabbed something, but it wasn’t strong enough to hold me. I fell and hit the other wall. The world spun like I’d just downed a fifth of whiskey in one sitting. I backhanded filth from my eyes, and then I saw what I’d grabbed. I couldn’t figure out what the cylindrical object in my palm was at first because of all the sores and rashes.


Then, I suddenly knew.


It was Jordan’s disease-ridden cock.


Think that ever happened to Humphrey Bogart?


I had enough time to look up and see Jordan hanging above us, a rivulet of blood splattering down, feet dangling loosely, before the destroyer rocked again.


I hit the wall with my head this time, real direct, like, and mercifully, I passed out. Pants around my ankles, covered in human effluvia, mouth ruined and skull cracked, I lost consciousness.


When I woke up a week later, I was stateside in a hospital, on the mend. Good news: my busted knees would keep me from the Fight, at least for a while. Thanks to that eye, Peters would be keeping me company.


Jordan? They couldn’t put his dick back on, not that he should have wanted that rotten and used up thing. After a month, they sent him back to the Front. He killed a lot of Japs, so many that they eventually gave him a Section Eight. I hear he committed suicide in ’47.


Peters died in ’83. Heart attack. I’m the last of ‘em, and I’m here to tell you, you won’t get the truth about war from James Cagney and his fellow actors.


Nope. War is hell, sure, but more so, it’s a dirty business. Hollywood will never get it right. Take it from me. I was there.

WITH FRIENDS LIKE THESE . . . . A review of LEGIT

Considering his lifestyle and the stories told about him, comedian Jim Jefferies should have been dead a long time ago. His stand-up is incredible, and his sensibilities are, while not exactly condoned by society, spot-on. What with all the booze and drugs he’s done, he should have certainly gone the route of Bill Hicks and died at an early age.



Nope. Now that he’s got a kid, he’s cleaned himself up, and now that he has a TV show on FX, it’s probably a good idea for him to keep his shit together. But just because he’s clean doesn’t mean LEGIT is a wishy-washy, pale imitation of his stand-up material. In fact, the premier episode kicks things off with one of his most questionable jokes.


If you haven’t heard his album, ALCOHOLOCAUST, you should do so before watching the show. At the conclusion of this one, he tells a story about taking his dying, wheelchair-bound friend to an Australian whorehouse so he doesn’t die a virgin. It’s a very detailed story, very offensive, and very, very funny. This is the subject of the first episode of LEGIT. The friend, Billy, played with mischievous glee by D.J. Qualls, is brought to Vegas instead (since the setting for the show is America), along with his brother Steve (played with a neurotic frenzy by Dan Bakkedahl), make for great awkward situations, especially since their parents are involved. Jim Jefferies, playing himself, staggers through the episode in a drunken stupor, and every single thing he says is either incredibly offensive, harshly abrasive, or just fucking dirty as all hell. One way or the other (or the other), it’s all funny as shit.


In the second episode, Jim decides to break Billy out of the hospital where he’s waiting to die. Inadvertently, they take along a guy with Down’s Syndrome, an uncanny ability to bowl a perfect game on Wii, and an unhealthy obsession with the Donald. The authorities think he’s kidnapped the poor guy, but when they send a nurse to pick up Rodney, she hangs out and gets drunk and/or high with them, instead. No subject is considered taboo on this show. Jefferies, who once told a joke on stage about a guy getting killed in a war zone, even goes as far as to joke with a suicidal Billy later on in the second episode.


If you like your humor in nasty, offensive packages, you need to start watching this show religiously. If you don’t think laughing at dying people in wheelchairs is funny, well, go fuck yourself. It’s all in how you look at it. Besides, even in the throes of the ugliest humor you can imagine, Jefferies does it from a place of love and good intentions. Billy is his friend, and he wants to help him enjoy the rest of his all-too-short life here on earth.


LEGIT is on FX on Thursdays at 9:30 pm Central Time. And don’t forget that Jefferies has an awesome backlog of stand-up comedy. Get on this shit, just in case he relapses and dies of a drug overdose. Then you can say you were a fan before he became posthumously famous.

HAIL SATAN! A review of Jim Beam Devil's Cut

When you see it on the shelf at your local liquor store, it looks like one of the deadliest whiskeys available. The label looks like it was half-burned off the bottle, and anytime you see the word “devil” on a bottle of booze, you should probably think twice before dancing in the pale moonlight.



Jim Beam isn’t the greatest of bourbons. In fact, it’s safe to say it’s the best of the cheap booze. It tastes just good enough, it kicks just enough ass, and it saves you just enough money to keep coming back for more. Sadly, a while ago they abandoned their original 86-proof recipe in favor of a standard 80. They recently brought it back with their black label, but now they’re creeping up into harder territory with a 90-proof bourbon.


If Kid Rock was half the man he seems to think he is, he would have endorsed this product, not that Red Stag bullshit. Pour that first drink and take a whiff. It smells quite a bit like Jim Beam, but as if someone had run it through a George Dickel White Label filter first.


Considering all of this information, there is no way this isn’t going to burn on its way down your gullet. Surprise! While the Devil is a vicious brute, he’s a smooth bastard who would talk the panties off of a saint. Wow, this goes down easy, and there is no afterburn. The taste does exactly what you need it to, and the 90-proof alcohol goes straight to work. And when it hits your stomach, it ignites with the perfect warmth. There is a bit more of an oaky flavor, but that’s no surprise, considering its story: “As bourbon ages, the angel’s share is lost to evaporation. The Devil’s Cut is trapped in the barrel wood—until now. Jim Beam’s Devil’s Cut is a distinctly bold bourbon with rich flavor unlocked from deep inside the barrel.”


Their black label is pretty damned good, and so is Booker’s, from the master distiller’s private stock, but Devil’s Cut is the best Beam booze to hit the market. Get on top of this shit right away, before it gets on top of you.

COOL SHIT 1-17-13

G.I. JOE #21:  In today’s issue of G.I. JOE, the role of Hawk will be played by Bruce Willis.  Seriously, this one could have been an ‘Eighties action movie.  Hawk has retired and is living out in the woods when he is suddenly beset by the forces of Cobra, intent on kidnapping him and extracting intelligence from him.  They don’t count on him remembering his training, and they certainly didn’t expect him to be living with Timber, Snake-Eyes’s wolf.  One man against a team of terrorists?  Yeah, that’s some John McClane shit right there.  Oh yeah, and apparently Cobra has iPads with the Cobra insignia on it instead of the usual Apple.  That definitely makes sense.  The only problem is, the cover shows Flint, not Hawk.  Or maybe it’s the movie version of Hawk as portrayed by Dennis Quaid, but that makes no sense, as the worlds aren’t connected.  Am I nitpicking here?  Yeah.  Fuck it.  On to the next one . . . .

STITCHED #11:  Let’s face it, when Garth Ennis stopped writing this book and Mike Wolfer took over, things haven’t been going so well.  Not that Wolfer is a bad writer (although he is a much better artist than he is a writer), but he just didn’t have the same quality as Ennis did.  However, in this issue, we finally find out what caused the Stitched to exist, and it’s a pretty interesting tale.  Hint:  ancient, black devil cum is responsible in some way.  That’s definitely something Ennis would have done.  Hats off, Mr. Wolfer.

CROSSED:  BADLANDS #21:  Speaking of books Ennis used to write . . . .  Unlike Wolfer, David Lapham is an intense motherfucker and constantly tries to one-up Ennis.  Sometimes he succeeds.  This is one of those instances.  Remember Amanda from the “Psychopath” storyline?  The one with Lorre?  Well, she’s back, and it seems that her encounter with Lorre messed her the fuck up.  She’s batshit crazy now, seeing Lorre in every stranger she meets.  And yes, she’s willing to kill all of the suspected Lorres in the world.  Now she might have gone completely off the deep end, though, especially now that Danger Montana is in her life.  He looks suspiciously of a guy who is very familiar with lost arks, temples of doom, last crusades, and crystal skulls.  In fact, he claims that those movies are based on his life.  Even stranger than that is the company he keeps.  In my opinion, there’s no way that this is actually happening.  Amanda is probably already dead, and this is a goofy afterlife or something.  Then again, Lapham is a rabid beast.  He could do anything, so I’m definitely along on this ride.

AND NOW FOR A SPECIAL EDITION OF . . .

SHIT SHIT

Remember a while ago when I brought you news of IDW’s newest bullshit crossover?  And you all called me crazy, that it had to be a hoax, that no one would ever go ahead with such an awful idea?  Behold!  IDW has revealed the proof!  This month will be consumed by their MARS ATTACKS crossover!  Now, MARS ATTACKS is pretty cool, but the other series they’re going to cross it over with?  Uh . . . it’s so bad, it’s sickening.

Shit, I know I’m kind of late with this one.  It just slipped under my radar.  Apparently, three of these books are already out.  First up:  Popeye.  Yes, Popeye.  The guy with the giant forearms and the spinach habit.  Second up?  KISS.  Yeah, no kidding.  The aliens actually go up against fucking KISS.  This week, it was Ghostbusters, but that was just to be expected.  The one that’s going to hurt the most for me is next week’s, which involves the Transformers.  The final one is supposed to be something called Zombies vs. Robots, so I don’t really give much of a fuck.  As if this wasn’t bad enough, they have incentive covers for comic shops.  Though they’re not really actual storylines, the fact that someone thought this shit up disgusts me.  One of them features Opus, from Bloom County.  Or Outland, if you’re too young to remember that.  Or how about a Judge Dredd crossover?  Maybe you’d like to try out Chew and Madman, or how about Spike, from the Buffy universe?  Or . . . fuck it.  I can’t go on.

I told you so.  That’s all I’m trying to say.

A WHISKEY THAT LIVES UP TO ITS NAME: A review of Woodford Reserve

Before you even open the bottle to get a good whiff, you can tell that this is some serious, fancy-pants booze you’re holding. The bottle is slim, almost like a flounder, and the cork (yes, cork, not spin-top) even has the company’s logo emblazoned on it. There is a label on the bottom telling you which bottle number this is, from which batch. Granted, a lot of whiskies are doing that these days in order to give the impression (sometimes falsely) that their booze has a longstanding tradition and is well worth the over-inflated money you’re about to pay them.



How does Woodford Reserve measure up? At 90.4 proof, you know this stuff is capable of kicking your ass, but the smoothness is what will truly convince you. There is practically no burn, just a little heat with the aftertaste. Hence, you can probably drink this all day and be fucked up long before you realize it.


There is an oddness to its flavor though. It’s thick and very earthy, kind of like sucking on a twig. Yes, Woodford Reserve tastes kind of like, well, wood. This could actually put it on par with the Scottish Ardbeg, which tastes like you’re drinking a campfire.


No matter how you look at it, Woodford Reserve is strong, and it’s good stuff, well worth the $35 and change you’ll pay for a fifth.

COOL SHIT 1-10-13

THE SECRET SERVICE #5:  Mark Millar continues to kick ass with the penultimate installment of the sister book to WANTED.  (Let’s face it, it’s WANTED but for good guys.)  As with all of his books, this one isn’t even finished, and already the movie is in preproduction.  And as always, it certainly deserves it, especially when we finally learn why the villain is trying to kidnap Hollywood celebrities.  This issue comes with a cameo from Ridley Scott.  Even better:  check out how this issue ends.  Holy fuck, right?  That’s pretty intense work, and I can’t wait to see how it all ends!

THE DARK TOWER:  SHEEMIE’S TALE #1:  For the most part, when this book covers material that Stephen King already covered in the DT books, it’s been kind of lame.  Very beautiful, but I’ve read it all before.  I want something new, like when Marvel first started adapting the series.  Finally, we get something different:  Sheemie’s story and how he wound up at the Devar-toi.  We get our first look of the Taheen, and we get to meet the Breakers, including Ted Brautigan, a major character from HEARTS IN ATLANTIS.  Artist Richard Isanove is a genius.  Check out some of the scenes where Sheemie works on breaking the Beams.  It’s some of the most beautiful artwork to appear in a comic book.

THE TRANSFORMERS:  ROBOTS IN DISGUISE #13:  More Starscream action as he talks with Megatron’s supposedly unconscious form.  Once again, it’s very interesting to get into Starscream’s head as he talks about how he’s manipulated everything so that the Decepticons would win Cybertron without ever firing a single shot.  Being that he’s a coward, he has to rely on a bloodless coup, and it’s amazing to see him practically begging Megatron to just let him finish with his plan.  Naturally, Megatron has other ideas.  So do Prowl and Arcee, for that matter.  It looks like things are heating up to a conclusion for this amazing political story.

THE WALKING DEAD #106:  Rick has been going crazy with Carl gone, but now that he knows where Negan is, he can only assume that the new villain has absconded with his son.  He’s gotten together with Andrea, Michonne, and Jesus to find this place and, wait.  He’s going to calmly ask for Carl back?!  Right, because Rick is still trying to lull Negan into a false sense of security with a bunch of submissive moves.  Too bad Negan is on his way to bring Carl back . . . and with a final panel like the one in this issue, I’m sure #107 is going to be pretty fucking harsh.