walnut grove

If – instead of Arthur Miller – William Faulkner had married Marilyn Monroe, and then had a baby with her, that baby would be the author of this book.

If Walter Cronkite had had long dark hair and shown a penchant for mauve, he could have been the author of this book.

Reading this book is like licking tunafish out of the can.
It’s like whacking a scoop of chunky cherry ice cream with thong underwear.
It’s like a lactating yak springing from a river.

If a hillbilly married his bastard aunt off in a shotgun wedding to a mythical beast, and that beast was not a unicorn, you’d be on page 56 of this book.

If Orwell had been down and out in the town near the Little House on Prairie, disguised as Mrs. Ingalls, that would sort of say what this book says.

This book will augment your bookshelf.

If you like this book, you’ll also enjoy cutting your hair with an exact-o-knife while sucking the cream from Devil Dogs with a straw.

If you went to jail and a guy called Cheebo bought you for 2 packs of Salems and a bottle of prison moonshine and then raped you repeatedly while watching The Days of Our Lives until you had to be hospitalized, that would about equal the denouement of this book.

It’s like Jude the Obscure meets Dracula on crack.

It’s like Yukio Mishima meets Susan Sontag meets Charles Bukowski in a long series of deceptively lyrical sentences.

The colorful, heart-warming characters come to life, and would nearly jump from the page if they didn’t die in the apocalypse.

If John Cleese had been born in South America and raised among monkeys, he could have written this tour de force with his right foot.

If this book had a soundtrack, it would involve the harmonica.