BEST BOOK EVER PUBLISHED

It's subjective, of course, and I'm biased, but the best book ever published is not THE KING JAMES BIBLE or The Grapes of Wrath or The Great Gatsby or Sweet Valley High #1: DOUBLE LOVE. No ma'am. No sir. The best book ever published is RETARD PENIS. Here is an excerpt:

I was sitting in a booth at the McDonald’s on Fredericksburg Road slurping melted ice cream when Debbie began bombarding me with text messages. I didn’t have time for her bullshit so I turned off my piece of shit Samsung Galaxy and soaked in the bliss of the moment, slurping melted vanilla ice cream looking out the window at the Tower of The Americas hazy in the distance. Sometimes I love living in this city. I donated plasma three days ago so I can afford this treat.

Debbie writes poems about me, says she’s in love, but I just enjoy fucking her on occasion with my basic American five inch cock. I don’t delude myself. The best I can hope for is a mediocre sex life with a bat shit crazy poet covered in ugly tattoos and the occasional McDonald’s or Dairy Queen or Sonic treat. I work as a cashier at the Five Below on the upper level of Wonderland. I’ve never taken an IQ test but I’m probably a few points above retarded. Not severely retarded. Functioning retarded, like most Texan Americans.

(title of the piece is DUMPING DEBBIE)

 

kurt cobain's suicide letter as edited by kathleen hanna

That's the title of my latest piece for RETARD PENIS, coming soon for the pathologically curious and terminally bored. Flash fiction, prose poetry, essays that would never make the cut and be published in Guernica or Sassy (RIP). It's a bloody DISASTER. Haters encouraged to purchase a copy at (where else) lulu dot fucking com. The world is hopping straight to hell like a delirious bunny and language is dead as dead as your daddy's dick. People will have no choice but to get over their petty prejudices and panties in a wad grievances. I pasted these words in a collage I made a billion years ago when I was a sexually frustrated virgin living small in rural Texas:

What's Your Problem Gripe or Guilt Trip?

There was probably a comma in there. I fucking loathe commas. 

There's such purity to obscurity. I embrace it like Dana Plato embraced Gary Coleman but only on set. Daddy was Mr. Drummond.