Absurdist writer Jon Konrath returns with another collection of hilarious and demented flash fiction. Descend into a manic world of Kafkaesque insanity and paranoia including FDA drone strikes against weight-loss clinics, amputee porn, a celebrity kickboxing match between Yo Yo Ma and Manuel Noriega, and hobby shop exorcisms. The author of the cult classic Rumored to Exist continues his surreal nonlinear journey through a nightmarish terrain of Jeff Spicoli-themed restaurants, indian casino abortion clinics, and an apocalyptic landscape laced with insane humor and nonstop non sequitur references to pop culture, medical technology, military machinery, and extreme heavy metal. This collection of 26 short stories and flash fiction pieces explores the human element through deranged comedy in what demonstrates Konrath’s bizarre style of experimental writing.
Book site: http://rumored.com/thunderbird/
Ben John Smith: I just finished Jon Konraths new joint and let me be first to say that It’s kinda like he is all the cool parts of the Internet bolted together, strapped into a ECT machine and howls like a wolf with lightning bolts shooting from its dick; splashing onto the paper in text… Exactly. Text that could possibly be deciphered in future to behold the inner workings of the truly and bitingly insane. And I mean that in a kind way, sorta.
Reading him makes me want to write and give up writing altogether in the same breath pick up a pen and lock my self in a room for 3 years.
Its Ballard with a squeeze of Dali, a true absurdest. Konrath will not stop, even with over 9 collections under his belt, this is a brain that spews shit. To stop would be to a fuckign kick in the balls of literature. remember at the end of Bob Fosse’s “Lenny” and Big Bruce is screaming at the judge to “You cant shut up the mad man, you need him to tell you when your fucking things up and your fucking em up!”? … Thats this collection. Read it, Fucking red it, srsly.
Let the proof be in the pudding, check this shit out:
Jon Konrath is a writer, technologist, and obsessive book hoarder. He started writing to capture the absurdity of the world around him, and started self-publishing when he realized stories about necrophiliacs with severe diarrhea problems would not get published by the Big Six. He has been blogging at rumored.com since 1997.
Bearded Women Shitting On Glass Tables Is Sort Of My Thing
“Lick the stump! Lick the stump! Lick the fucking stump!” I walked through the Wal-Mart, on a quick and failing trip to buy some more fiberglass reinforced Dremel cutoff wheels, and saw the man at a cheap Chinese-made computer covered with Skoal promotional stickers. His gaze at the screen revealed the damaged eyes of an unchecked mental illness, high on the buzz of streaming high-octane porn in a department store. He wore one of those tough-guy sleeveless muscle shirts, with “Come At Me Bro” or “Do You Even Lift?” on it, although it didn’t look like he lifted anything bigger than a four-patty bacon cheeseburger in years. He also donned a pair of roomy sweatpants, through which he fondled his flaccid member.
(I personally wore torn up jeans and whatever black metal band shirt happened to be somewhat clean, or at least not be covered in human blood. That day’s shirt: Winter Throne — not the Winter Throne from Norway where all three members shot themselves in the head at the same time, or the Winter Throne from Sweden that burned down all the churches, but the Winter Throne from Germany that worships Satan, if that clears it up any. And about the sudden need to buy rotary cutoff blades for aggressive shearing of metal: a big naval warfare kick consumed me a few weekends ago, pulling me down into a deep k-hole that involved reading hundreds of wikipedia pages about the USS Missouri, the Bremerton shipyard, and the Pacific battles of World War 2. I stayed up all night trying to buy a decommissioned battleship on eBay, placing bids on shady half-legal auctions out of Argentinian scrapyards, and ended up ordering one of those replica full-sized aircraft carrier kits from Ikea. Three weeks later, UPS delivered 21,000 separate boxes, each one containing a partial instruction book, but no overall parts inventory or master instructions. Also, none of the instruction sheets had words, only cryptic stick-figure cartoons and hieroglyphics that were completely indecipherable. I tried to assemble the Ikea aircraft carrier using the little hex key, over a three-week period, and got to the second to last step and realized the flight deck was upside down and backwards and I’d have to disassemble the prior 312 steps to fix it. Fuck that — I’d rather slice the whole god damned thing apart in a shower of sparks and burning metal.)
“Dude, check this shit out. It’s so fucking hot.” He played a grainy MPEG video of a legless redneck-looking amputee woman in a Hot Dog on a Stick uniform making out with a goth girl dressed as a slutty Bride of Frankenstein. It looked like someone converted a VHS dub of a SECAM-formatted cine transfer of some North Korean 8mm pornographic filmstrips and then digitized it at Apple II resolution with the trial version of the most inefficient Windows 3.1 video editing program imaginable. I couldn’t pick up the storyline, and it probably didn’t matter, because the whole thing was poorly dubbed, with all of the genitals blurred out, Japan-style. Also, the bootleg $199 computer (brand name: “Packer Ball”) could only play video for about five minutes before the illegal copy of Windows ME had to be fully reinstalled from an endless pile of floppy disks.
“Are you into Acrotomophilia?” I asked.
“What, you mean like fucking a tarantula?”
“No, sex with amputees.”
“The Stump Girls chicks are pretty hot, but it’s not like I’m going to start dating someone with diabetes just in case they’re gonna lose a leg someday. I don’t get off just because a bitch has got a missing foot. A chick who lopped off body parts just to get into porno though, that shows a level of commitment I can appreciate. And if some other chick wants to dive into that shit on her way to the clam bake, then by all means, right?”
And why not. I wasn’t exactly a porn connoisseur, but I’d unearthed some choice sites in the endless all-American game of googling random fetishes on my work computer until the magic 5:00 came up on the wall click. Like once I found a Mama Cass-themed porn site, with homely-looking chicks choking on ham sandwiches. I tried watching a few clips, because why not, but the screen kept filling with pop-ups for a trial of Nugget magazine, and these horrible web cam show ads, featuring some hillbilly chick in a mobile home somewhere in Arkansas, a 19-year-old mother of ten chain smoking with a voice like Keith Richards who would insert anything in her ass for the right amount of credits deposited in her account. I’ll kill time at work, sure, but I’m not about to feed my credit card into some site that’s going to sell it in plaintext to every script kiddie on the planet.
“Man, that Stump Girl is so skanky, you could get VD from beating off to her videos. I should wear a rubber, dude. And I’m not even really into this site. Bearded women shitting on glass tables is sort of my thing.”
I bid a quick adieu and ran to the tools and hardware aisle. I really need to start shopping at Target instead of Hillbilly Heaven, I thought.