Vernon God Little by D B C Pierre (2003)

Of course everyone thinks of sex while watching ballet.

They don’t?

I thought this book was funny. I gave it to friends. Did they think it was funny?

They didn’t.

But for me, it passed the Tickle Test. That’s to laugh out loud by page ten. Giggle will do. Snigger too. I got got at page six. Kind of a loud snort, which I’m going to allow under sniggering.

[Page six. In a important interview with a fat policewoman who’s gnawing Bar-B-Chew Barn ribs with barbecue sauce dripping on her name badge and trying to ascertain if Little is an accessory to murder:]

Are you with me, Mister Little? Are you here?

Like, duh. I want to say, ‘No I’m at the lake with your fucken daughters,’ but I don’t. For all I know she doesn’t even have daughters.

It doesn’t?

Try this.

You don’t know how bad I want to be Jean-Claude Van Damme. Ram her fucken gun up her ass, and run away with a panty model.

Oh, never mind.

Aside from the frisky tone, this story has some fun with protagonist Little’s learnings along the way to finding himself in deep doo-doo.

It can be good sport watching teens get teed off.

… I had her on a plate and let her go. You’re just never taught when to be an arsehole in life.

Second that. But beyond the wise about being an ass, there’s also some savvy sauce on the world’s workings.

I sense a learning: that much dumber people than you end up in charge… [and] only the dumb are safe in this world, the ones who roam with the herd…

So. Uh-huh. How’s he deal with that? Play God?

Learn their needs, and they’ll dance to any fuckin tune you play. (Sorry, can’t help but slip in a couple of the 550-odd ‘fuck-”s from this book. That’s a fuck a spread.)

Oh, and there are some mega metaphors. Here’s a peach.

Barry stands leering by the phone, eyes puckered into goats c*nts.

Me neither.

Thanks for being here.

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