From the middle ages onwards, the use of scatology in social commentary has been a central feature of a certain type of literature. From the giants Garguantua and Pantegruel of Rabelais to the literary criticism of Smollet, DeFoe, Swift and many more, the shock effect of a good dose of toilet humour has the potential to shake up the sediments and confront the complacent. The protagonist is Uncle Tommy MacTavish, an aging, chronically constipated wannabe intellectual who lives on the fringes of his Scottish Highland home. He is a Walter Mitty of the WC, seizing the day in his own unique manner as he caustically reflects on the follies and foibles of his fellow men and women. I warn you, this book is not for those who are fainthearted or easily offended by lavish descriptions of bowel movements and toilet troubles. However, if you like such things, you are in for a rare and recommended treat

Never before have the secrets of the Sexual deviance department of the Ministry of People's Security in North Korea been revealed. In this glorious manual, you will learn how to identify sexual deviants, North Korea style. Full of images carefully selected by the finest scientists of DPRK to lure out the perversions of your subjects, along with scientific instructions on usage.

In the run-up to Interpol's General Assembly, something is truly amiss. The world's largest international police organisation is heaving with internal strife, petty rivalries, and treachery. For the Secretary General, re-election is not enough. What he wants is a unanimous victory and he is willing to go to any lengths to secure it. It will not be easy. Not only are others, both inside and outside Interpol, trying to stop his re-election, but some hate him so much that they are plotting his ultimate humiliation. His enemies are legion; that much is clear. What is less clear is who exactly is plotting against him, and which of his many, many transgressions they want revenge for. As the date of the General Assembly draws near, all parties redouble their efforts to get what they want. The result is chaos. The result is farce. The result is not Interpol's finest hour.

No descent self-respecting modern homo sapiens should miss getting this Stone Age parody. This book rocks, or at least has its own share of rocks in it. If nothing else, this book should turn a few smiles right side up.: -{: -} My primal aim is to entertain. Step back in time with me to a time where a cave is a home and where dinosaurs roam. I had great fun writing it, and now it's ready for you

The entire best-selling spoof erotica trilogy is here in one book Follow the filthy adventures of the animals down on Honey Farm from start to finish. Five star-rated Amazon best-seller. " I never laughed so much in all my life." "This is an extremely funny and original book." "Laugh out loud stuff," "Genius, so funny. I read this and laughed so much my husband thought I was going to keel over; hubby read the book after me and laughed equally as much as i did."

This little book of 16,000 words or so was conceived in response to Nathaniel Branden's 1989 memoir "Judgment Day: My Years With Ayn Rand." Branden's compelling blend of pomposity, indelicacy, and bitter swipes at former associates seemed ripe for parody. After I had gotten about halfway through my retelling of the memoir's epic events, I set the effort aside for a little while. Next thing I knew it was a quarter century later, 2014. Among other depressing features of the annum, the socialist Obamacare had arrived and the flying antigrav cars had not. One excuse for not finishing my manuscript had come in 1999 with the publication of the second, revised, cleansed edition of Branden's memoir, entitled simply "My Years With Ayn Rand." I gather that this version deletes much of the vindictiveness and perhaps other indiscretions of the original, making "Judgment Play" even more pointless than before unless one enjoys this sort of thing and has access to library systems and second-hand books or vaguely remembers a book read 25 years ago. So perhaps I should have just let my manuscript molder in my computer. However, I kind of like it myself; and this being the age of the Internet and e-books, which are even groovier than flying antigrav cars, it is easier than ever to inflict dubious reading matter on the public. So here we are. If, despite the hurdles, readers show enough interest in what follows, I shall proceed to Part Two, which I would expect to fashion even faster than Harlan Ellison churned out "The Last Dangerous Visions." * * * ON THE night that Ayn Rynd died at the age of 77-March 6, 1982-I was in my Southern Californian mansion sipping wine and munching grapes when my sister called to tell me what had happened. I listened, thanked her, and hung up the phone, gripped by a hairball of emotions that was sweeping through me like a scythe through an Amish corn field. I felt giddy, lighthearted, somber, sad, exhilarated, joyous, bitter, pompous, bored, and sleepy, in that order. It did not surprise me. The complex, contradictory feelings possible to the human mind when dealing with loss were old news to me. I had experienced it all before-a few hours before, in fact, when I had heard about Belushi. I plucked another grape and chewed it meditatively. The phone call was to be the first of many. On a night like this one I was bound to receive more than my usual quota of evening telephone calls. The fact did not surprise me. For as a result of my investigations into psychology, I knew how the human psyche is likely to impel one to lift that handset during times of crisis. I introduce the concept to my clients as Being Through Calling. I also knew that it would be impossible to predict the exact sequence in which the calls would come. And yet, I never doubted that causality governed the universe. Lo and behold my first wife, Babs, who had shared so much of the pain and the joy of our tumultuous and dramatic (and how ) years with Ayn Rynd, was on the line. It did not surprise me. Babs was one of the people who would naturally give me a ring on a night like this. When I heard her voice I felt confirmed and validated in my intuition, as well as a little annoyed. Had I heard the news? she wanted to know. "Yes, yes, I heard," I snapped. Of course I had heard Why would I not have heard? Such a question Once again I was flabbergasted by the extent of the woman's Bambi-like naivete. Did she really suppose that the knowledge of Ayn's death could have been kept from me? Babs was droning on and on about the sadness of the event, how it was the end of an era and so forth. She seemed to want to re-establish the intimate personal context of yore. And while I, too, in some minimal extent, wished to regain a thread of the connection which Babs and I had once shared-there was too much static on the line...."

This is an inexpensive fun book with a cover which purports to show how many animal species were in Noah's Ark. But inside there's nothing except over 90 blank pages An ideal fun gift for your fanatically religious friends. When they've finished with it they can use it as a notebook or address book. It's a good coffee table book because nobody can resist picking it up and looking inside it.