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Skullfucking the Great American Novel.


We all love Gatsby, right? The prose is damn near perfect. The end of Chapter One sends shivers crawling around your temples. And that end; boats against the current and shit. Good shit. Fitzgerald was a god. But Game of Thrones walked up behind Gatsby, knifed it in the back, and roasted the corpse with dragon fire.

Have you taken any university lit courses? The ones where you have to read things like Gatsby and write 10-12 pages double-spaced on the Earth-shaking symbolism of the book's colors or its life-affirming qualities for WWI veterans?

Those professors are idiots. Idiots with actual degrees from Idiot University. I'm being 100% literal here.

They're just teaching Fitzgerald and Maugham because that's what they learned back in their own college days (at Idiot University).

Gatsby might have resonated with lots of people back in the 20s and 30s, but today only wankers (like me and you) read it. Books that are nothing but somber meditations on the the Idle Rich and Young Love and Disillusionment will not sell anymore. People no longer wanna read that nonsense. And no, Jonathan Franzen, the world doesn't need any more of it.

Go to any brick-and-mortar bookstore that still separates Literary Fiction from genre fiction. Read the blurbs on the back covers. They're all character studies. Not only that, they're character studies that pretend as though there are still characters that haven't been invented.

All the characters that will ever exist have already been created in other books. Do not write the next Gatsby.

The Great American Novel is wonderful and lovely, but here's something extremely important: you're not reading it right now. You're in the middle of 3 or 4 thrillers or fantasy books or romance novels or porno mags. None of them are The Great American Novel. Maybe seven months ago you read 15 pages of Crime and Punishment, but you put it down and picked up Game Of Mother Fucking Thrones because Game Of Mother Fucking Thrones is SO FUCKING GOOD.

And Dostoevsky wrote dogshit. Not good dogshit like we write; boring dogshit. Our dogshit is hot and steamy and trashy and fun, his is just old and dried up. (Before you yell at me, yes I am well aware that Crime and Punishment isn't an American novel. The word Dostovokeksyekskyveveeky kind of gives it away.)

The world of High Lit has canonized Dostoevsky and Fitzgerald and so on and cetera. Therefore, High Lit is dead to me. As I type this I am standing over its corpse and pissing. My piss is actually improving High Lit. And look, there's my dog. He's a little white dog with black eyes. He's taking a dump on it. His legs shake when he squats to shit, and his shit is improving the corpse as much as my piss is.

Next step is to get down on my knees and try CPR. If I can bring the body back to life, maybe I can talk some sense into him and tell him to stop idolizing Serious And Depressed Young Men.

There's no sign of life. No breath. No pulse. Okay, what did I teach everybody when I was a CPR instructor? Oh right, open the airway, tilt the head back, open the mouth, and breathe. Watch the chest rise. Breathe again. Still no life. Smack the face.

Wake up, bitch! Fuck it. He's gone. Pick up the body. Drop it in the trunk. Drive to your local mad scientist.


Me: Hey doc. I got a problem.

Her (the mad scientist): What's the deal? Another voodoo curse?

Me: No. Wait, what? You're a scientist. You don't do voodoo.

Her: Who do?

Me: You do.

Her: Do what?

Me: Remind me of the babe. Anyway, you don't actually do voodoo, right?

Her: First, I am a babe. Second, you don't know much about science, do you?

Me: …

Her: Ok whatever. What can I do ya fer?

Me: I got a dead body in my car. Can you help me bring it back to life?

Her: Not again! Why can't you control yourself?

Me: Man, whatever. We're not in court. Just help me, please. Please.

Her (reluctantly): Alright, fine. But this is the last time, got it?

Me: Thank you so much! Yes, I understand. Thank you thank you thank you!!

Her: You owe me big time.


We lay the corpse on an operating table. She connects wires to every inch of his body. She takes a little too much time hooking wires to the nether regions. I'm not sure, but I think she wants to ride High Lit's dick like everyone else. Ugh.

She flips a switch and the electrodes and whatever-science-y-things throw sparks everywhere. Before long the corpse starts to twitch and groan. Then it stands up. It looks at me and shrieks.



Oh. My. GOD. It's a zombie!



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About Zombie Orwellone of us since 3:07 PM on 03.30.2012

My fellow internet zombie brethren:

It is my specious pleasure to be addressing you in the fullness of time. My name is Zombie Orwell. You will be hearing a lot from me in the coming months as we ratchet up the intensity of our Zombie Rights Revolution.

I wish all of you safe human-hunting. Please message me ([email protected]) if you have questions or free tacos.

I love you!