In the constant apocalypse nobody cares if your skull is made of
wood or your friends are flying ants. Corrosive phantoms are
two-a-penny in such a high-res environment. Minotaur Babs improves
the shining hour by snogging horses and has a style pedal attached
to his arm so he can punch people in the manner of various
celebrities. A basement of whispering apes is the source of all
wisdom. Bob is propelled through a hull door with only a parachute
between him and the slamming palm of god. Placid vampires suggest
shapeless and impractical management policies. But how much of the
narrator's vortical tale is designed to annoy Eddie and waste his
time? A volley of poetic stand-up, this intense splurge contains
some of the most unnerving excuses in print, all a-scramble with
phosphene electricity and casual resentment. You will emerge from
this revised edition glowing like a dashboard saint.
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