Psychosomatic Crabs

Description

“”Psychosomatic Crabs”” is not only Arthur J. Rocks first novel, but also his finest – by his own admission: an ill-conceived collection of ill-advised words which you would be a fool to consider anything more than a massive drunken mistake. Based in part on an absurd reading of his own revoltingly uneventful life, Mr. Rock furnishes us with the sad tale of a grim character named Jack Twain and his all but fatal addiction to solitary madness and Internet pornography – not sad boo-hoo, you understand, but sad pathetic. Twain, apparently, is computer speak, an acronym: Terminal Without An Interesting Name. Jack, speaks for itself. In a nutshell this book is the story of a miserable, nearly nameless freak-show with the sexual equivalence of the screaming abdabs . . . We join the depressing action just as Jack has finally decided to renounce his sticky-handed ways and perhaps take up some form of alternative exercise, maybe politics, or knitting. Sitting on a much abused sofa he ponders the past and tries hard not to flick his switch again – his abandoned laptop weeping in a corner, crying out for attention.

As we read on we discover much that we wish we had left unread, and slowly gather that knickers play a crucial role; knickers and Dettol, and a self-loathing equaled only by the most repugnant of Roman Emperors. Were it not for Mr. Rocks inadvertently humourous honesty and his, at times, painful inability to moderate his warped sense of cruelty and impropriety, this book would be an absolute car-crash. As it is, “”Psychosomatic Crabs”” is more a multi-vehicular apocalypse; as close as it is advisable to get to the inmost workings of a forty-year old pervert with dubious notions about personal hygiene and the meaning of it all. Cut with a healthy dose of compulsive idiocy and tragic stupidity, not to mention the baby wipes, you will soon find yourself drawn into a world where the screen is all that exists, where the perfect configuration of pixels is the only concern.

Id like to say that this book is an absolute pile of Geneva Convention, but given the fact that following my first reading of this pestilent little tome I found that I had literally soiled myself with mirth, I will say only this: read this book at your peril; and if your peril is unavailable, try an accommodating aunts house, or failing that a small cafe, or anywhere they serve tea on a tray, what do I care, cant you see Im busy! . . . But I digress; purchase your copy now and fortify your disgust.