My apologies for the delay in new blogs. I’ll return to it soon. Until then, go watch Beasts of the Southern Wild or something.
You know that one female friend you have? The one who’s always scowling? The one who’s probably fat? The one who’s never happy about anything? Ever? The one who thinks she’s making clever commentary but really she’s just bitching and complaining about something inane and pointless and it’s really just a metaphor for a lack of attention devoted to her vagina? That female friend? That’s Bianca, Our Protagonist from the hit novel “DUFF: Designated Ugly Fat Friend”. Yeah yeah, we’ve all got one.
Have you ever been to one of those coke parties? No no, not the ones where you’re palming your stash in your pocket in the cold garage at 4am because you know half the party has run out of their supply and they’re talking to each other about relationships and movies and trying to find out who still has coke and people who ignored you and wrote you off at the beginning of the party have now become your best of friends because you still have coke and you’re so geeked out that you can’t even form words so you’re listening to MGMT because they help take the edge off and you keep sipping beer, even though it does nothing on account of all the cocaine you’ve done to yourself and your nose is running but it’s dry at the same time and there’s that hot redhead who’s “never really done this before” but there’s nothing you can really say to her and you need to take a shit and it’s the good coke that’s cut with diesel fuel so you go to the bathroom to do some more and not take a shit.
Not that kind of coke party. A Coke party. Like the drink. Well, let me tell you. They are WI-LD. That’s two syllables, that’s how you say it. Anycoke, the Coca Cola party. No really, the first part of the book is set in a bar-turned-teenage-lounge called The Nest and the “bartender” only serves Coke products. Laced with GHB? Nope, just Coke products. Rum and Coke? Nope. Just Coke products. Oh shit! These kids are all hopped up on Cherry Coke and caffeine! Sounds like a fuckin’ P-R-T-Y party!
Bianca is probably a library assistant at the high school, she’s such a curmudgeon bitch. Her friends were shaking their asses like dancers in a rap video, and that’s about it. They weren’t making out with anyone or getting fingerbanged back by the Golden Tee game, which I assume is what happens at teen parties. They were just dancing, as girls do. I wouldn’t know though, I only party at gay bars and naval bases. Basically Bianca is one of those girls. You know, those girls. A cockblocker, a cuntblocker, whatevs. Cherry Coke bitch. What’s her problem, anyway? Let’s delve deeper into the text and attempt to decipher it, shall we?
Bianca hates The Nest because it makes her friends act like idiots. Well, anyone partying at a teen club is probably an idiot when there are real parties that have, you know, alcohol. She’s just sitting there being a bitch when her friends join her. One is stupid and annoying and the other one has apparently wet herself because Harrison Carlyle (what a name **SWOON**) slapped her or something, I don’t know. This is just another closet-misogynist tale written by someone who doesn’t know shit about people. Anyslap, Bianca is a negative bitch to her friends and she has an edgy blonde pixie cut. I.e. she’s a lesbian. Well, that explains the curmudgeon. Have you ever met a nice lesbian? Me neither.
Next, Wesley. Fucking. Rush. approaches her and she despises him even though the conversation they have is boring and tame and stilted. What an asshole, how dare he encroach on her dry teen vagina?? I bet there’s a porn of that. Someone should Google it.
What do you want, I demanded, not even bothering to be polite.
Oooohhh, she’s not even being polite. Then there’s:
Leave me alone, I hissed through clenched teeth, Go try your charming act on some tramp with low self-esteem.
That’s a case of the pot calling the belly fat.
This is a study in the JD Salinger school of writing a whiny, wholly unlikeable character. This can work if done right. Just ask Lena Dunham or Larry David. Kody Keplinger sucks at it though. Then it’s time to leave the faggoty teen club and go get statutorily raped at a college party with “college boys” (and dicks) but only if Bianca’s friends take her out for ice cream afterwards. “Two scoops”. Lying bitch, you know it’s four scoops.
Ugh, this is a long, long preview. You can practically read the whole thing just on Amazon without even buying it. Please don’t.
I think you can gather where the story goes from here. Bianca hates Wesley. Fucking. Rush for no reason but by the end of the book, they’re totally banging on a reg basis. Just like every bullshit rom-com in existence. I’ll spare you the rest of the preview but you’re in for a treat. I’m going to browse through the rest of it because I heard there were sex scenes galore. No alcohol or drugs though. Instead of sex, drugs, and rock and roll, it’s dry-humping, ice cream, and Coke Zero. Just kidding, Bianca would never touch something without sugar. LOL what a duff.
Anyduff, lemme go look for this sex…
LOL I found this first…
Pour me another one, Joe.
I’m cutting you off.
It’s Cherry Coke.
Which can be just as dangerous as whiskey.
And then he calls her fat. Hahahaha. Dumb duff.
Nothing yet, just some heavy petting, which Bianca the Bitch swats away.
Therrrre it is, page 66 and 67. Written like a true teenaged…Author of 50 Shades of Grey. I don’t know her name… But Bianca and Wesley. Fucking. Rush. do it. Also, Bianca’s auburn hair fell all around them, even though it was an edgy pixie cut at the beginning of the book. There’s nothing too saucy, just “we had sex” and some removal of clothes and jiggling of Cherry Coke-infused belly fat.
Girls, please stop doing this to yourselves.
Hmm. I was this close to abandoning this blog. I became bored after only six or seven entries. The other day, I wasn’t even bothered enough to enter the password to sign in to my account here. Things were hopeless, pointless. Why spend my time reading shit writing? My time is worth more than that. Well, I don’t have an answer for that question. But I still feel needed.
A quick glance at Twitter shows me that there is still support (and hatred) for me. The bad writers and losers I’m after all rely on Twitter because no agent will take their shit work unless they already have a following. True artists, true writers, don’t need a following. Their work will speak for itself. To me, Twitter is a game, a waste of time. True, I may only currently have 33 followers but I check that insipid, dumb website maybe twice a month, tops. The views on my blog far exceed any Twitter followers. So I’m doing something right and I’m not going to quit. It was a nice hiatus though.
Carroll Bryant is a boy. Just throwing that out there. Like it’s difficult to tell from his bland, asshole protagonist. He’s a maverick. A rogue. A ne’er-do-well. I can’t wait for his physical description, our protagonist. I hope he’s dashing and rough-cut and he needs to shave and he needs a drink and he rolls his eyes at convention. Please please please, MR. Bryant.
Our Protagonist springs up in bed and sweat Was Pouring all over his face. He had seen the ghost of the wind. An angel from hell. That’s all she is. She would be his down fall [sic], his heart beware. Love interest? For Our grey Protagonist? Is he bad? Is he good? Black? White? I don’t know but I do know one thing. He’s a detective. The whole first part explains that to us. Our Protagonist remembers the day he was called into the captain’s office. Just the day. That’s the day he remembers. The day. The captain hands him a scowl and transfers him. Oh boy, Our Protagonist looks more and more like a ne’er-do-well by each paragraph!
Anysweat, back to springing up in bed. Oh wait, next thing Our Protagonist knew, he was standing outside the airport. Forget about that ghost he saw, the ghost of the wind. Let’s just skip ahead like any poor writer would do. Then let’s have some filler about two cabbies arguing over who gets to drive Our Protagonist around, a passage that serves no purpose except to bore the shit out of the reader and fill some space, much like this sentences is doing, the sentence you are reading.
So this is it? This is where I spend the next ions of my life…
Ions? This is where Our Protagonist spends the next atoms or molecules with net electric charges due to the loss or gain of one or more electrons of his life? Do you think the author means eons? Fuck it, let’s just skip ahead again.
This time Our Protagonist finds himself in front of a building that looks more like a bordello than a police station. A detective with teleportation powers. This book might not be so bad after all. You just wrote yourself into a boring corner? Teleport. Works every time.
“Do I look like I know what the hell you are saying?” I quizzed in my normal how do you do tone.
YES. A how do you do tone! I knew Our Protagonist had a devil-may-care attitude. I bet he gets sex and gets beaten up and SOLVES THE CASE. He better with that attitude.
He quickly snapped his fingers.
Don’t you hate it when people take their time when they snap their fingers? I know I do.
My soured speech spilled onto the floor.
No wait, I’ll finish, sorry.
Before I knew it, I walked a couple of blocks.
So it’s random moments of amnesia, not teleportation. Damn it.
And now… The climax of this Amazon preview. The Love Interest.
She appeared out of nowhere [Just like Our Protagonist!], dancing like a gypsy making love to imaginary things[I'm sorry, what?!?], prancing and frolicking like a Monet painting in the morning [That's what Monets do in the morning?], wearing a green silk dress, barefooted. Her long black hair was flowing in the summer wind. My heart was no longer its own. My mind went blank. My limbs felt like spaghetti.
Are you sure you shouldn’t be writing shitty fantasy instead, MR. Bryant? That was a lot of similes, wasn’t it. We have gypsies, paintings, imaginary things, pasta. I think this is the ghost from the beginning of the book.That would make sense, right? Mercifully, this preview is short and so is the book. It’s only 138 pages of hell.
Finally, let’s take a look at the cover. Remember, this is a book about a detective…
I don’t know about you guys, but my limbs feel like rigatoni right now. My heart isn’t even its own!
I’ll let Our Protagonist conclude this for me.
Seriously I had to think for a moment. “What the hell?”
Please stop recommending this book to me, I mean it. More and more it seems like my friends don’t have a grasp on what I consider a good read. This is another buzzed-about subversive novel that’s supposed to be comedy but instead, it just falls into pointless absurdity. I can’t tell much by the preview (thank God pages 32-324 aren’t included in the preview) but it seems like there’s this other dimension and monster doppelgangers replace humans or something. It’s a mess and not in a good way. And what kind of epilogue goes on for 35 brain-deadening pages? All filler no killer.
This is one of those books that should have just been a screenplay instead. Even then, it would just be one of those “cult” films that only your weird, former acid-fried friends would be into. The one he pulls out from his DVD shelf every time you’re picking out a movie. The gratuitous one. I’m all about gratuity if it’s done well but it never is. See: John Dies at the End. Which is being made into a movie.
The beginning goes on and on and rambles about fuck-all in paragraphs that serve no purpose other than to convince us that it’s a funny story. That and the narrator is some sort of psychic who parties a lot or something. Much like every book written by Some Dude in the past ten years, said narrator wakes up in a drunken/drug-induced stupor. Then he has to excruciatingly explain to us what’s going on. This usually takes pages but hey, at least if the author crams enough bullshit into it, he’ll have a whole novel instead of an idea for one. Then he gets published. Yay…
The guy who wrote this crap was a writer for Cracked Magazine or some other pointless, unfunny rag. This novel started off as a silly ghost story but idiots wanted more and what idiots want, idiots get. We’re told at the beginning and the end (where hopefully John Dies) that this was all being narrated to a reporter, which writes off the fact that it’s shitty writing and bad syntax. There might as well had been a disclaimer about it at the beginning. “I’m a shitty writer so I’m just gonna get away with it by using this shitty writing device.”
Anybeast, the writing. How many times do we need to be told about the narrator’s stomach? It clenches, it gets symbolically punched, it clenches. It’s like every writer only knows how to describe any negative feeling by showing us its effect on the stomach. Because we can all relate to that.
Then people randomly turn into monsters or terrifying things like a gaggle of snakes. A murder of snakes. Whatever it is you call a group of snakes. I never know anymore.
Then there’s a lot of “I looked and saw” or “I turned and saw” or “I seent and saw”. But remember, this is because this story is being told to a reporter. That way the Writer doesn’t have to Write.
Then there’s a meat monster. What’s going on?!? Anything goes! And the rules are…There ARE no rules!!
“the ham whizzing through the air like a Randy Johnson football” is an actual line from the book.
“the meatstrocity screamed” is another one.
“We meat again” is spoken by the meat monster.
I. Hate. Bizarro.
This is all before chapter one, by the way.
Anymeat, this story takes place, once again, in the Midwest. Because that’s more cool than LA or New York. The fucking Midwest. It’s a town that’s actually a portal to hell. Kansas City, maybe? Branson? Little Rock? We’re never told. Then there’s some strange and hard to follow scene that’s in a back yard (I think) and there’s a Jamaican (I think) and he’s a psychic too (I think). And our narrator is just so out of it and as confused as we are. Ain’t it cute? The centipede was in his stomach the whole time! Of course. We find this out because the narrator’s stomach clenched again and he vomited.
Which finally brings us to the 35 page epilogue that doesn’t explain shit. Or maybe it overexplains shit? I don’t know. It’s all shit to me. And we all know people will always love shit.
Edit: Here is the plot, as transcribed by the perpetually-writing slaves at Wikipedia:
The main characters, John and Dave, are friends from an undisclosed town in the Midwestern United States.
The story opens as Dave is discussing the unusual events he has experienced with a reporter named Arnie. The first story opens as Dave goes to help John’s band play at a local party, just outside of town at a lake. At the party, Dave finds Molly, the dog, and meets a strange Jamaican person dealing a drug called “Soy Sauce.” After taking the drug, John begins to see things. Thinking John is having a bad trip, Dave decides to take John to the hospital but, after Dave receives an impossible phone call, they end up at the home of “Big Jim” Sullivan and his sister Amy, trying to return Molly to its owner. Amy tells Dave that she’s afraid that Jim is dead, and he didn’t come home after the party. Not knowing what else to do, and wanting to put the whole episode behind them, the two go to work at the local video store.
At work, Dave accidentally cuts himself on the syringe that contained John’s dose of the Soy Sauce and begins having unusual experiences as well. Dave and John are brought down to the police station for questioning regarding others who have taken the drug, and are now missing or dead. While they are being questioned, John mysteriously collapses and is taken to the hospital. Dave receives another strange phone call, telling him to go to the pseudo-Jamaican’s trailer. Dave finds the fake Jamaican’s stash of ‘Soy Sauce’, but is interrupted by the police, getting shot in the process. However, due to a miraculous occurrence, he survives relatively unharmed. Molly rescues him from the burning trailer and leads him to John’s comatose body, which has been kidnapped by an evil force on its way to Las Vegas. That evil leads them to the Luxor Hotel, where Dr. Albert Marconi is having a conference on the paranormal. The conference descends into chaos as the evil attacks, and Dr. Marconi helps send it back to where it came from.
The second major incident Dave explains to Arnie happened a year later. Dave and John are called in to help investigate a strange death apparently caused by Molly. It turns out that the evil is on the loose again in Undisclosed in the form of a sports reporter, Danny Wexler, who has been possessed by a shadowy entity, likely after taking Soy Sauce. With the help of Wexler’s girlfriend, Krissy, John and Dave have a car chase with a man made of cockroaches, and are led on a video-game inspired chase through the abandoned mall, where they have a stand off with the entity that has taken Wexler. There the evil possesses Dave, but it is ultimately defeated.
The third story starts the next summer as Dave notices that someone is watching him through his television set. The feeling continues until one winter night he has an episode of missing time just as Amy disappears. While they investigate Amy’s disappearance, Dave begins to feel that he may have killed her, and peeking into his tool shed and seeing what appears to be a dead body, he is sure of it. When Amy reappears, however, the mystery deepens. As the darkness descends on them, Dave has to come to terms with how his paranormal encounters have irreversibly affected him.
Before I begin my little blog here, I just want to get one thing out of the way.
This is me prioritizing.
This is writer-speak for “a disclaimer”.
The only reason I want to read the rest of Brenden Teatz’s Breakthrough Ripoff Porn of a Novel is to see how bad it really is. It’s kind of like watching Here Comes Honey BooBoo or something with Snooki in it. You hate yourself (and whoever you’re watching) but you want to hear whatever dumb shit Snooki says or see whatever nasty nasty thing comes out of or goes into one of the Honey Booboo peoples’ bodies.
This is TV Producer-speak for “train wreck”.
But before I begin, for those of you just tuning in, you might want to go do something else instead. This is disaffected cynic-speak for “I have something better to do. I have anything better to do than read Out of Touch”. Is this thing on? Are you still reading? In case you’re a dumbfuck, this is me talking down to you. Much like Tweetz does throughout said novel.
But let’s disconnect from the writing and have a Sentence By Itself first.
Here, too, is another Sentence By Itself.
This is pretentious lit-fag speak for “post-post modern”.
I’m having a little too much fun with all of these platitudes and condescensions (Tautz does them so well in Out of Touch) so I’ll get on with my review.
But first, let’s go back. This is the “before” picture. Because at some point in everyone’s lives, they are a before and after picture.
Once there was an author. Let’s call him chuckpalahniuk. chuckpalahniuk was at one time a literary maverick. chuckpalahniuk had a style that was all his own. chuckpalahniuk pushed boundaries and shirked literary merit to write some refreshing and progressive reads such as the seminal Fight Club, its fantastic followup Survivor, the instant classic Choke, and the manic and enjoyable Invisible Monsters. chuckpalahniuk had a unique, casual voice that struck a chord with a new generation of readers. chuckpalahniuk was relevant for a time. I’ve been a reader my whole life and I was getting tired of the same old crap everywhere I turned. chuckpalahniuk got me reading again.
Then chuckpalahniuk got cocky. chuckpalahniuk fell under the artist curse of “I made a classic so now I can experiment with my “art” and do whatever the hell I want and people will buy it. See also: The Strokes, Saw movies, Radiohead, U2, several other bands and directors. All of a sudden, chuckpalahniuk sucked. That’s not the unfortunate part, however. The unfortunate part is that chuckpalahniuk’s writing was so casual, every numbnuts hipster with a pack of Parliaments and a lack of adequate fatherhood from Portlandia to Massachusetts thought that they too were writers.
They came in troves, these chuckpalahniuk clones. Each one was a copy of a copy of a copy, the next more degenerate and untalented than the last. A big contributor to this influx of shit writing was chuckpalahniuk’s then workshop, which taught its denizens how to Write Like Chuck. Enter Brondon Totz. I don’t know the man personally but I’m assuming that the first draft of Out of Touch was nothing like the “published” version, rewritten after Tootz discovered chuckpalahniuk’s workshop.
This is offended phony hack-speak for “This guy really does his homework”.
For those of you just unsticking your balls from your leg, I’ll continue with my review.
That’s exclamation point-speak for “exclamation point”.
Man, now I see why Twatz does that so much, it’s pretty fun. Anyspelunk, Out of Touch is about this dude named Aidin. He likes to part and debauch. He’s a “club-god”, whatever the hell that is. I don’t know why anyone over twenty three would want to be in a club anyway, much less become a “club-god”, which is probably similar to having a vast collection of STDs. Welcome to 2013, where clubs are fuckin’ lame. It seems to me that Tetzuo’s only grasp of nightlife is what he sees in the city that always sleeps, Kansas City. I think the novel is actually set there too. In the words of my girlfriend’s dad: “How unfortunate”.
Okay, damnit. The twist here is that Aidin can’t feel anything. Now, we’re never told exactly how much of anything Aidin can’t feel because he can’t feel himself getting full when he eats or gets his ass kicked but he is apparently addicted to the taste. So whatever this weird “Out of Touch” thing is, it doesn’t affect his tongue. How unfortunate. Wait, get it?? The novel is called Out of Touch because the protagonist is numb and the theme of the novel is probably that the protagonist becomes “out of touch”. Dang. I might be wrong about Browndong Tightazz.
The beginning of the novel (after the douchey part in italics that was added in after Tinkz read chuckpalahniuk) introduces us to Aidin’s therapist, Dr. Paradies, who I can only assume DIES near the end. Also, SPOILER ALERT. Dr. Paradies is Aidin’s mom. You can see it yourself in the Amazon preview because some idiot put the epilogue in the preview.
Anycrunch, this is where we’re first inundated with “doctor-speak” and “This is me” and “In case you’re just tuning in” and more chuckpalahniuk ripoffs like Aidin tonguing a wound in his mouth (Fight Club). Then Aidin “can’t feel a damn thing” but waits for the taste of copper (that’s a show-don’t-telling of blood) when he needs to stop tonguing the wound. There’s that magical tongue. This novel should have been about a magical tongue inztead.
Then Tonzils bafflez the reader by zharing zome ztrange bitz of wizdom. Like anytime you see someone who’s handicapped, there’s always this little part of you that has doubt. WOW. Such insight into the human condition, Brandon Tietz. That drooling cripple who’s always smiling and grunting is surely a fraud, you insignificant, reprehensible douche. The part of you that has doubt, Mr. Tietz, isn’t a small part at all. It’s a giant part. And it’s your douchiness. I’m talking to YOU, not the proverbial you that’s us, the unfortunate readers. People don’t need to see evidence, you asshole. That’s not why blind people have seeing eye dogs and that’s not why deaf people have sign language, you rabid cunt. Those things aren’t “proof objects”. Christ, Tietz, you. are. a. royal. douche.
I’m judging from the epilogue in the preview that Aidin has become some sort of government tool who does their dirty work or something, like Tightz is setting up for some sort of bastardized superhero serialized nonsense. It’s so dumb, you guys. Don’t bother with it, really. I had more to say but I’ve only grown angrier and angrier at Tietz while writing this one.
This is me telling you to retire, Tietz. This is writer-speak for “fuck right off”. Your book suckz. You, sir, are
…wait for it…
…This is you waiting for it…
…That’s waiting room-speak for…
..wait for it…
Out of Touch.