The Sugar Frosted Nutsack

Is there any-thaaaang good inside of you
If there is, I really wanna know-woh-oh-oh-oh --
Is there any-thaaaang good inside of you
If there is, I really wanna know, really wanna know . . .

In short, reread the "Hitchhiker's" series and, unlike Mr. Leyner, stay off the dope.

And because they were omniscient and so tight knit, 
they could be very adolescent and pretentious in the way they
flaunted their superiority. It wouldn't be unusual for a God to use
Ningdu Chinese, Etruscan, Ket (a moribund language spoken by just 
five hundred

And because they were omniscient and so tight knit, 
they could be very adolescent and pretentious in the way they
flaunted their superiority. It wouldn't be unusual for a God to use
Ningdu Chinese, Etruscan, Ket (a moribund language spoken by just 
five hundred people in central Siberia), Mexican Mafia prison code,
Klingon, dolphin echolocation clicks, ant pheromones, and honeybee
dance steps-all in one sentence. It's the kind of thing where 
you'd be like, was that really necessary?

There was never nothing. But before the debut of the Gods, about 14 billion years ago, things happened without any discernable context. There were no recognizable patterns. It was all incoherent. Isolated, disjointed events would take place, only to be engulfed by an opaque black void, their relative meaning, their significance, annulled by the eons of entropic silence that

There was never nothing. But before the debut of the Gods, about 14 billion years ago, things happened without any discernable context. There were no recognizable patterns. It was all incoherent. Isolated, disjointed events would take place, only to be engulfed by an opaque black void, their relative meaning, their significance, annulled by the eons of entropic silence that estranged one from the next. A terrarium containing three tiny teenage girls mouthing a lot of high-pitched gibberish (like Mothra's fairies, except for their wasted pallors, acne, big tits, and t-shirts that read "I Don't Do White Guys") would inexplicably materialize, and then, just as inexplicably, disappear. And then millions and millions of years would pass, until, seemingly out of nowhere, there'd be, fleetingly... the smell of fresh rolls. Then several more billion years of inert monotony... and then... a houndstooth pattern EVERYWHERE for approximately 10-37 seconds...followed by, again, the fade to immutable blackness and another eternal interstice... and then, suddenly, what might be cicadas or the chafing sound of some obese jogger's nylon track pants...and then the sepia-tinged photograph from a 1933 Encyclopædia Britannica of a man with elephantiasis of the testicles... robots roasting freshly gutted fish at a river's edge... the strobelike fulgurations of ultraviolet emission nebulae... the unmistakable sound of a koto being plucked... and then a toilet flushing. And this last enigmatic event—the flushing of a toilet—was followed by the most inconceivably long hiatus of them all, a sepulchral interregnum of several trillion years. And, as time went on, it began to seem less and less likely that another event would ever occur. Finally, nothing was taking place but the place. There was a definite room tone—that hum, that hymn to pure ontology—but that was all. And in this interminable void, in this black hyperborean stillness, deep in the farthest-flung recesses of empty space, at that vanishing point in the infinite distance where parallel lines ultimately converge... two headlights appeared. And there was the sound, barely audible, of something akin to the Mister Softee jingle. Now, of course, it wasn't the Mister Softee truck whose headlights, like stars light-years in the distance, were barely visible. And it wasn't the Mister Softee jingle per se. It was the beginning of something—a few recursive, foretokening measures of music that were curiously familiar, though unidentifiable, and addictively catchy—something akin to the beginning of "Surry with the Fringe on Top" or "Under My Thumb" or "Tears of a Clown" or "White Wedding." And it repeated ad infinitum as those tiny twinkling headlights became imperceptibly larger and drew incrementally closer over the course of the million trillion years that it took for the Gods to finally arrive.

It is a methedrine compound of pop pastiche, offhand high tech, and dazzling televisual parody, formed with surreal juxtapositions and grammarless monologues and flash-cut editing, and framed with a relentless irony designed to make its frantic tone seem irreverent instead of repellent.

I'n not necessarily opposed to nonsense. Hell, I love Alfred Jarry and Ring Lardner. One of my favorite novels from last year was Nicholson Baker's House of Holes. But there's a trick to making nonsense palatable and Leyner doesn't have it.