Bizarro by the Gallon

Want to help two authors make it across the US? Want to read the sort of filthy fiction three vagabonds driving across the Midwest in a sketchy van would write? Well, for four dollars you can. Download His Cock is Gas Money, a chapbook I created alongside Crud Masters author Justin Grimbol, who will be driving us, my girlfriend Leza Cantoral and old college friend Matthew Winner, who will be joining Justin and I on our sojourn from Chicago to Maine. For the price of a gallon of gas, you get over 17,000 words of fiction, including a never before seen novelette by yours truly! Only 4 bucks and you'll be riding with us...in spirit at least.



His Cock is Gas Money 4 dollars in glorious downloadable PDF

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Dollarbin Massacre Goes Trashpicking with Constance Ann Fitzgerald

When Constance Ann Fitzgerald isn't working in a sex shop, she writes Bizarro fiction. In fact, she's one of this year's New Bizarro Author Series, like Spike Marlowe and Justin Grimbol. Since Constance's book Trashland A-Go-Go revolves around a stripper's adventures in a magical, fucked up world of trash, we thought we'd talk about trashy movies, films that test, stretch and shatter the boundaries of good taste. Films we should be a little ashamed to like whose creators showed no shame at all. So, she gave us a list of her four favorite and two least favorite trashy, trashy movies. And here it is.



Trashpicking by Constance Ann Fitzgerald

I love:

Pink Flamingos – In the interest of making this a proper list I have selected the quintessential “Trashy” movie to represent the entire John Waters catalogue.
This. Man. Knows. Trash. And better still, he isn’t afraid of it. He embraces it. When you think of trashy cinema John Waters should be the first thing to come to mind. In his films you can expect depravity in all forms. What makes his work special is his approach. Things that normally make you cringe probably still do, but you also laugh. His films make me want to visit Baltimore even though I know nothing interesting happens there. Ever.




Mommie Dearest – All the backhanding fun of Dynasty! Joan Crawford’s twisted discipline, withholding nature and all around bizarre parenting techniques reek of a hybrid Jackie Collins /V.C. Andrews novel. But, you know, with less incest.
Once you get passed the fact that this movie is based off of the book written by Crawford’s daughter Christina, and that these acts were alleged to have happened, it’s actually kind of fun.
You want to get lost with Joan. You want to see her succeed; you want to see her be glamorous and divine. And instead what you get is her face covered in cold cream shouting “NO MORE WIRE HANGERS!” and beating a little girl with a coat hanger. You want to see her rise above and
gain a sense of humanity. But you won’t. So just enjoy the ride.



Meet Monica Velour -- Kim Catrall plays a washed-up, boozey, aging porn star/single mom that goes back to stripping to make ends meet. Her biggest fan, and dork supreme, Tobe Hulbert tracks her down to catch her show and an awkward, uncomfortable, semi-sweet friendship is formed.
Anyone who has ever been a superfan roots for Tobe. Regardless of the uncomfortable age difference.





Party Monster - What makes this movie trashy isn't just the hedonism- it isn't just the pursuit of feeling good and being fabulous, no matter what the cost.
It's that these thing's ACTUALLY happend and they made a movie that makes it look like a really fucking good time.
Michael Alig built an entire scene and got so strung out that he killed and butchered his friend and then partied for 3 months until he was finally found guilty.
But Seth Green and Macaulay Culkin (his best work since 'Uncle Buck') prancing around on screen more than softens the blow. It makes you want to throw glitter on your hunchback and get out on the dancefloor covered in raw liver and fake blood.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=youtube_gdata_player&v=F7TGNhVsa94



I loathe:

Showgirls – I want to like a movie about a workin’ girl just trying to make a go of it. But I can’t. This movie was bad. Really fucking bad.
I grew up as a fan of Saved By The Bell. I remember Elizabeth Berkley’s finest moment vividly; Jesse Spano wacked out on caffeine pills crying in her bedroom singing “I’m so excited” until she broke down and fell into the arms of platonic best friend Zac Morris.
Bad actress then. Bad actress now.




Poison Ivy 3:The New Seduction -- Did anyone else know that they made FOUR of these movies?! FOUR!
In the third installment “Poison Ivy: The New Seduction” Jamie Pressley plays the little sister of Ivy named “Violet”. Big fucking surprise, every girl in all four films is named after a flower but behaves like a complete fucking tramp.
Violet is no different. She’s a dominatrix hooker seeking revenge on the people who threw her family out of their home due to her mother’s scandalous ways. Scandalous indeed.
Poison Ivy 3 must be a late night Skin-a-max favorite. It’s basically soft core porn. I recommend it to hormonal undersexed males everywhere.





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Chainsaw Noir

Recent research has shown me something interesting: there is little intersection between people that enjoy my work and people that enjoy poorly built websites. VERY little. I've heard this brought up before. So, with a lot of help, I've launched a new, more aesthetically pleasing blog. Enjoy the stuff that's already here, you'll find the odd nugget of wisdom and piece of flash fiction in the archives, but for new material, you want to go HERE

That's http://chainsawnoir.wordpress.com. I'll see you there.

I Need You to Understand (a flash fiction piece)

Something awful has happened, Lyle. You have gotta believe me. I know that I am a representative of the liberal Jew run media, but I’m telling you the truth. You are decapitated. It seems like a difficult thing to process, I know, especially since your head is not attached to you and quite frankly, Lyle you weren’t the sharpest tool in the shed anyhow. Not nearly so sharp as the machete that detached your head. You’re a dumb fuck, Lyle. A dumb, headless fuck.

You remember how last night I called you up and I told you I had a tip that a bunch of coeds were decapitated by a machete? It’s okay, take a second. You’re a little slow. Because you’re fucking headless. I’m sure if I were headless my memory wouldn’t be so great. Don’t call me names, Lyle. I’m trying to help you remember why you’re headless. But you are, Lyle. You are headless. Shit…okay, this is hurting my argument. Let me just jog your memory. You remember now? Yeah. You remember the call? Good. Remember you told me I was a liar? Then I told you to check your daughter’s room? And then you found her body, on the bed, in the puddle. And her head was under the bed. And somebody had stuffed all of those red crayons into her vagina.

Then do you remember what you said to me? You told me to stop making up stories or you’d put me in the drunk tank. And you did. You lectured me on making up stories. Told me you didn’t have time for my shit when a serial killer was loose. You didn’t seem to make the connection. It’s okay. Take a second. No, I didn’t just make that up. Then this girl gets wheeled in, headless, bunch of red crayons in her pussy.

And I screamed and I said “I told you so” and still you kept me in there for another hour til they brought in another girl. Naked. Stump where her head should be. Red crayons? You remember the crayons now, don’t you? It happened. Wasn’t just what the Jews paid me to say. And you looked at the body and you looked at me and you decided to look into this weird machete decapitator theory.

So we got into the squad car and you turned on talk radio and they said that murder didn’t exist. And so you hauled me back in and it took two more victims getting wheeled in headless with dozens of red crayons in their cooches before you decided that maybe this murder theory had some legs. So you remember that now? Yeah? Good. That was really fucking tiresome, Lyle. If you weren’t my brother, I might have sued you or something.

So you got a call on your police radio that a great big, hulking guy wearing an Archie mask and carrying a dripping machete was seen outside of a sorority house. At first, you insisted it was some kind of rush prank. But then you saw the guy and decided you’d shoot him for participating in such an insensitive rush prank. So we got out of the car, you took aim at this hulk of a man wearing an Archie mask and you reprimanded him for skulking around outside a sorority house waving a machete around when a serial killer was loose. The guy survived three shots to the chest, then chopped your head off and left you here, headless in front of a sorority house full of screaming girls.

Even though you have somehow figured out how to survive without a head, Lyle, I severely doubt that you will ever make sheriff.

Kizuna: Fiction for Japan

When the Japan disaster happened, I was devastated. A great nation was hit by nature's worst and a lot of my friends and colleagues live there. To add to this, I saw this:


The sentiments of some of America's most disgusting white trash. I ranted, I raved, I got mad. Still wasn't doing anything. That's why I was glad to see Brent Millis, a Bizarro/scifi author who has been living and raising a family in Japan had started a charity anthology to help out. I'm honored to be part of this project, which features great authors from all around the world showing that they care with works of short fiction. All proceeds from this anthology will go to Japanese disaster relief. Keep an eye on it HERE

Review of The Sorrow King by Andersen Prunty

Sweet Virginia who the peasants call the goddess of gloom… Edgar’s blues are just like Tom Thumbs. Sweet Virginia, vanquished Virginia, Virginia Lenore, Virginia Lee. Each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon his floor. He cries and trembles like the great old Florentine, architect of Dis cried over another little girl. They live forever and they ache forever, revenants of ruin like Mary Shelley’s flattopped green miscarriage. Grief is invincible, grief fucks your head. Grief is terror. Andersen Prunty deals with this relationship in a direct raw, yet altogether fun way in his latest, The Sorrow King from Cargo Cult Press.
The peace of Gethsemane, Ohio has been disturbed. Not the kind of peace that can be disturbed by teenage hooligans or loud parties, no, but a deeper peace, the heart of the town. This heart is breaking, it is beating fast with fear and threatens to stop. The horror obsessed over by Steven King and many before him (even Mary Shelley whose bolt-necked stillborn babe continues to terrify) has come to pass through an epidemic of teenage suicides. The why of it all has disappeared in favor of “who’s next?” There’s a tragic realism to this response, a reminder that depression is a mystery to so many. It hearkens back to Heathers, which shares many traits with The Sorrow King, including sardonic brutality and stylized but real young people.
The Sorrow King’s protagonists Steven and Connor are experiencing flashes of greater insight, cryptic clues that reveal where the sickness will strike next and that the two of them are quite possibly in the middle of it all. Steven is a real, listless teenager, with real listless teenage depression and real, listless teenage urges. Steven’s dad, Connor is somewhere between a sitcom caricature of a cool dad and a real life cool dad. Much of The Sorrow King is about their relationship is about their relationship, which is that of two men who have come together after the loss of Steven’s mother and one of two people who cannot comprehend the mysteries of depression and grief.
In the midst of death and despair, Steven develops an obsession that turns to love. Steven sees the enigmatic Elise walking the town at night and begins to join her. Their friendship turns quickly into love, but a love challenged by coldness and sexual distance. Prunty builds this relationship with an authentic blend of melancholia and wonder that perfectly characterizes highschool relationships. The relationship dissolves and Steven finds himself facing the power of guilt and sex through dark visions. For instance, in a particularly chilling scene, he encounters the sperm spilled during a handjob and it presents him with an awful truth.
As the book progresses the two men must do battle with a creature like Goethe’s Erl King, King’s Pennywise and perhaps Poe’s Conqueror Worm, an incarnation of grief that springs forth from the mysteries of depression and the human heart. Those who’ve read Zerostrata, Something Wicked This Way Comes and King’s New England will find The Sorrow King both alien and familiar, strange and undeniably human like grief and depression themselves.

The Sorrow King from Grindhouse Press is now available at Amazon.com.

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