h2g2 The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Earth Edition

You had best get yourself ready for this one. I write under the pseudonym “John J. Adler.” Although a Canadian (read on, I have two middle names) I was born in Atlanta, Georgia. My given name is William J.H. Anderson.

Everyone loved my original entry, but they thought it wasn't me so here I go again. This Guide Entry is sure to liven things up.

One thing for sure with my book, page after page, just when you think things can’t possibly get more bizarre, more repulsive, more insane, even FUNNIER, they certainly do, frighteningly, exponentially so--purposefully so. That’s the inside joke of the story.

Here’s the guy who knows every civilized person on both planets has been so bored sitting on the toilet that we have all read the back of a shampoo bottle. Yes, you included. As he tells it...

... A pretty, matronly mom with a store-bought dress, in her forties, still with a perfect nine-kid rear-end, raised her hand and asked, "Do douche bottles count, sir?"

See? And what’s up with that “Blowgun” word?

See disturbingly more at the author’s bio and website.: http://premier-magazines.com/novel.htm.

AS A FRIEND WROTE:
... anyway, we’ve discussed this book at length, hunkering down trying to connive up a way to describe this novel but we have failed. Of course, it’s a psychoanalytical murder mystery thriller—that’s the easy part—but it is so much more. It’s that more part that makes it so hard to describe. You want mysteries? Hell, this book by Anderson, aka Adler is so crazy one minute you see Joan of Arc, a true Candy Striper, then a Candy Stripper dancer in Atlanta’s world-famous strip clubs, then some inbreeds, real inbreeds, layers and generations deep jealously fighting over the best looking sheep in Cornhole, Iowa, name-a “Puff.” Then it goes to the top and bottom of Atlanta. It’s truly psychotic and that's the inside joke--the fun of it--if one is prepared.

Maybe the juiciest mystery is in inner space—inside the mind of Candy McDonald, a mystery trapped there by the jumper cables “Diddy” attached to her temples--what with all that electricity and all--her father’s budget ECT treatment program to get his virgin daughter back. Plus the jail wouldn’t take Jason.

Yes, Candy is the sweetest young lady--not girl--on at least THE two planets you’ll keep reading about in this mind-boggling trip into the cesspool of human nature. Read: Grace Kelly on steroids. Or Faith Ford takes whoring lessons. We just don’t know how to get a-holt to an explanation because we have never heard tell of such a thang before. As far as mysteries go, we think there one is stuck in the mind of a sheep name-a Puff.

This book doesn’t stretch the envelope—it’s genius method annihilates the paper atoms right down to Quarks and Muons. The antimatter hero here is a clone of Einstein, Enrico Fermi, Da Vinci, Ted Bundy and butt-crack Blue Collar Bob all rolled up into one and boy does he hate everyone. EVERYONE and their ugly Czech Gypsy aunt, her albino sister, and their ugly, three-legged Czech dog and the Monte Carlo car they done all rode in on. Yes, all this after his mind snaps on page eighteen. He hates trees too.

The author says in the first paragraph to go ahead and call 911 because this book is an equal opportunity publication. It offends every group on Regular Earth and Counter-Earth. The genius anti-protagonist is out to send as many people as his high falutin’ Canadian/Georgian scales can get a-holt-to--to Counter Earth. Compared to him, they all suffer from microencephaly and deserve their trip to Counter Earth Hell, a duplicate planet in collinear orbit with our Earth, always invisible, always behind the Sun of course. Yes. Really. His new fluid-based inner scales had told him so. Of course if someone doesn’t know that microencephaly is the scientific term for a pinhead circus-freak that proves they deserve a coach seat ticket to Counter Earth itself.

Tooles’ 1962 novel, “A Confederacy of Dunces” comes to mind. In real life, it won the Pulitzer Prize AFTER Toole killed himself because no one would publish it. Then his New Orleans Mamma started hustling it around to bored college professors. He got the Pulitzer Prize all right. Posthumously.

We, the stupid readers see the, and again, collinear, real take on things blasting out from the scales of this genius nutcase human reprobate exterminator. It’s scary. You’ll be ashamed to laugh. But you will. Then you’ll look over your slinking, alley-cat voyeur shoulder to make sure your mother isn’t seeing you read this insanity. That’s why the author uses the pen-name above.
Don’t worry. One should have positive thoughts--sometimes.
It gets worse--turn by turn, a perverse screw cinching down on the vise of normalcy. Then, BAM, a little humor takes over--RELIEF-NOT--not, like a thumbscrew. Hide in the outhouse when his take on things start to make sense. Soon, you’ll hate trees too. Again, page after page, just when you think things can’t possible get more repulsive, more scientifically insane, they do. Then before you know it, you’ll be laughing your Canadian Counter Earth frozen bum off in the middle of this cesspool of insanity. But be a-looking--don’t let Diddy see you reading this here stuff. See that sentence? The southern American Idiom is dead on--so right, no one has to make it up or hire Vivian Leigh.

This author has done impossible—combine incredibly high IQ, violent killing AND base, rude terror complete with dozens of absolutely true and perverted insights hidden in almost every paragraph, if not every sentence. Now warned, you might pick up on about one half of them. You’ll even get little physics, chemistry and geography lessons as you come to understand just how superior his inner scales are and all.
So take a giant trip down into the nadir of insanity. You’ll be disgustingly entertained, laughing all the way. Fo’shuh’.