Pygmy said "National Bestseller" on the cover. The Washington Post said "Palahniuk is brilliant."
In the second chapter the little cutthroat protagonist contemplates, in some detail, the homosexual rape of a snot-nosed teenage bully he encounters at a Wal-Mart. A few pages later, the protagonist began acting out on this meditation. I put the book down.
I was about to toss it in the trash can when I remembered that I can bring the book back to the airport bookstore where I bought it and get half the price back. So I'll be making a stop there the next time I'm through the airport in Hotville.
This is what passes for great literature in my country. It is apparently okay to depict torture and rape in order to (a) be funny (b) write satire (c) serve any other artistic purpose one may have in mind.
Dipping religious icons in feces and urine, writing about sexual perversity and wallowing in descriptions of torture are considered fine art by my cohorts, the Baby Boomers. This is part of what will mark us as "The Worst Generation," when that book gets written 50 years from now.
We mistake our perversions and illnesses as something worth staring at and chatting about over cocktails. To label a novel scandalous is to ensure bestseller status.
In reality, Chuckie P's rape fantasies are just the puss that leaks out of unattended boils. I cannot imagine what degradation he has been through to arrive at the point where a detailed description of homosexual rape seemed like a brilliant idea for his novel, but I would say Chuckie P. is officially a broken unit.
Maybe he could focus on getting better, rather than helping infect other people with his afflictions.
And by the way, Chuckie P. needs to stay away from my children.