Full disclosure here: I have a short story in this anthology and every short story I write is pretty much THE GREATEST SHORT STORY EVER WRITTEN so rig...moreFull disclosure here: I have a short story in this anthology and every short story I write is pretty much THE GREATEST SHORT STORY EVER WRITTEN so right there, you have one VERY GOOD reason to spend all of your money on this book. And, in keeping with the spirit of full disclosure, this one time, when I was 19, I was at Barnes & Noble and I farted and accidentally pooped in my pants. It was horrible. I ditched my underwear in the trash can in the bathroom and went right to the self-help section. My life has been a constant uphill battle back to normalcy ever since.
So when I sat down to review this book, I was originally gonna do that thing where I review each story one by one, giving my thoughts and opinions on each tale individually. But then I had this thought:
Most of the contributors to Tall Tales with Short Cocks vol. 2 are active members on Goodreads, right? So they’re going to see what I have to say about their work, correct? They're out there as I type, eagerly anticipating what I - one of their professional peers - have to say about the words, characters and plots they've toiled over for hours and hours of their ever-shortening lives. WELL FUCK, MAN! THAT’S A LOT OF PRESSURE ON ME! For any of you people out there reading this who don’t happen to be the writers of this book let me tell you a horrible truth that binds all of us creative types together – WE ARE ALL GAPING, SOUL-SUCKING BLACK HOLES OF INSECURITY AND WE NEED CONSTANT PRAISE AND ATTENTION OR ELSE WE WITHER AND DIE LIKE THE ILL-FED INSECTS WE ENVISION OURSELVES TO BE! So I know from personal experience that no amount of complimentary words I can craft celebrating the fine authors that make up this anthology will be enough to sate their out-of-control egos. And in my mind I can see them all sitting there at home, the glow of their computer screens casting their faces in pallid blues, their wide and expectant eyes glazing over as they read what I wrote and thinking “IS THIS ALL HE HAS TO SAY ABOUT ME AND MY AMAZING CONTRIBUTION TO THE PANTHEON OF WORLD LITERATURE?” Because that’s what I think. Every. Single. Time. I mean, go ahead and tell me you love me, tell me I’m hilarious, tell me I’m a good writer, interview me for you blog, write a nice review for my book, write a book LONGER than my book about how awesome my book is – AND STILL, it will never be enough. We writers, we can’t help it. It’s part of what keeps compelling us to create.
So what then? What can I say that will help quell that insatiable hunger than lurks in the heart of every artists soul?
Tall Tales with Short Cocks vol. 2 is a wonderful collection of frenzied and frenetic stories that encompass pretty much the entire array of human emotions and take you to realities you never thought could exist. All the stories in it are amazing. Some I loved. Some I REALLY loved. And some I even cummed on, which, in my world, is the highest honor a person/book can receive. But here’s the kicker: I’m not going to tell you which of these fantastic tales inspired the seminal drips of my literary love wand. I'm not playing favorites. I'm not choosing a winner - suffice it to say, sperm was spilled. Quite a bit, actually. And listen, Authors of this Anthology, I know that this review might disappoint you. Even right now I know your thinking “Why hasn’t he called out my work as the single shining beacon upon the ocean of words on which it rests?” I apologize for not giving you the ten-billion pats on the back you all so rightly deserve. But know this: I love you all. It is an honor to have my story in a book jam-packed with the brilliant and hilarious lot of you. So thank you all for doing what you do, and please, for the love of god, DON’T EVER STOP DOING IT.
Everyone else, please stop reading this review right now and go buy the fucking book already.(less)
"Fucking GUNS are fucking AWESOME and when you SHOOT them at SHIT, they fucking KILL it."
When I was little, I hated Choose-Your-Own-Adventure books. T...more"Fucking GUNS are fucking AWESOME and when you SHOOT them at SHIT, they fucking KILL it."
When I was little, I hated Choose-Your-Own-Adventure books. They always involved a lot of page-turning and book-marking and remembering shit. It was such a chore! Also CYOA books were always about boring crap like knights and dragons and other medieval nonsense that didn't really interest me. But now, after reading Texas Biker Zombies from Outer Space, I realize that those CYOA books of my childhood just didn't have enough tits, blood, over-the-top violence, dinosaurs, sluts, dinosaur sluts, profanity, drug abuse, tasteless humor and, of course, muthafuckin' ZOMBIES to keep it fresh and fun. And as you can probably tell from the quote I began this review with, this book contains literally ONLY those things.
Look, if you are uptight in any way, you can go suck an egg. You are missing out on wonderfully guilty pleasures like Texas Biker Zombies From Outer Space. This book is ANARCHY. A giant middle-finger with B-movie sensibilities - that's really the only way to describe it. DeForest doesn't care who he offends. He doesn't care if you think his story is "pleasant" or "nice". He's more like "Eat a dick, America. Shit is about to get craAaZzZzzY up in here."
[Side note: You people have no idea how happy I am that I got to type "go suck an egg" in the last paragraph. The opportunity definitely doesn't present itself often enough!]
I've already run through this book twice, died close to 7 times and I still haven't exhausted all the brain-splattering possibilities. For the cost (2.99) you can't really ask for much more entertainment.
Plus - I should say this - the Kindle format really lends itself to the CYOA style. Skipping ahead and going back is as simple as pressing a button. FUCK YOU, BRAIN! I DON'T HAVE TO REMEMBER SHIT ANYMORE! BWAHAHAHA!
You're trapped in this sphere. The sphere is built out of all the individuals in the world that have lived or ever will live. And all of their bodies...moreYou're trapped in this sphere. The sphere is built out of all the individuals in the world that have lived or ever will live. And all of their bodies are overlapping one another so there's no light in the hollow center of this sphere - just the voices of these people all shouting their stories at you. And their stories are the thread that holds this mass of flesh together like patchwork.
So there you are in the center of this thing and all of a sudden it starts rolling down a hill. You lose your footing and now you're bouncing around. You're randomly smashing into all these different people. And every time you hit somebody, they try to tell you their tale or beg you for help, but there's nothing to grab onto and no way for you to help them. The sphere keeps rolling faster and faster and you keep smashing into more and more people until one day you finally reach the bottom and now you can stand up. It's still dark. Their stories are still being told and your still trapped in this horrific thing and you're beaten and bruised and can barely breathe, but the world has stopped spinning for the moment. And everything seems okay.
Of course, that's when you realize that the sphere actually hasn't stopped rolling at all. The pressure and force of your descent has destroyed you. You've been atomized and then smeared across the walls of this thing like wet paint. You're now a part of it. And all of a sudden there's someone else inside. And they are trapped. And you're just one of the billions of faces that make up the fleshy walls of this human balloon and you're trying to tell him your tale too but he can't hear you above all the other voices crying out to him which is ironic because those voices are all screaming the exact same thing.
We're all telling the exact same story. We just start at different points.
When Morrison is good, he's really good. When he's funny, it's funny. When he speaks of truths, you know that they are true. And when he's incomprehensi...moreWhen Morrison is good, he's really good. When he's funny, it's funny. When he speaks of truths, you know that they are true. And when he's incomprehensible, he's totally incomprehensible. Like almost all of Morrison's work, this volume spans that entire gamut. (less)
There is something uniquely human about Stewart’s prose. It’s both honest and unnerving, but not in t...moreThis book has infested me.
Please, let me explain:
There is something uniquely human about Stewart’s prose. It’s both honest and unnerving, but not in the usual “cheap” way. It doesn’t use hackneyed tricks to get you to feel a certain way, like you’re a complacent member of some nameless studio audience and there’s a big neon sign above your head that reads FEEL SAD. FEEL SYMPATHETIC. FEEL VINDICATED. NOW APPLAUDE, MINIONS! It’s not that kind of story. Even if the situations encountered in here are somewhat fantastical, the emotional weight they carry is very REAL.
The main character is a female. The story definitely comes from a female perspective. And although I’m a man – a man with facial hair and ugly toes and a huge, gigantic, massive, enormous, impossibly long penis – it still speaks to me. And that’s because this book was written in such a way that you’re not just reading about this girl Diana. You are Diana. I AM DIANA! It’s uncomfortable, looking in the mirror through Diana’s eyes, because the reflection that shines back looks suspiciously familiar. Sort of like my own. And that’s what makes this story so good. This book digs its meat hooks into your heart, yanks out your empathy and rapes it in the face. This book is now living in my blood like a parasite or a worm. It’s fucking my brain. It’s having sex IN me. By the time I finished the very last page, I had given birth to myself.
Hello, Danger. You’re a person now. Congratulations.(less)
I give this book 4,362 STARS out of the 3,557 STAR review system I just arbitrarily made up.
These are short stories. They are witty and pervasive and...moreI give this book 4,362 STARS out of the 3,557 STAR review system I just arbitrarily made up.
These are short stories. They are witty and pervasive and bizarre and disturbing, but they're witty and pervasive and bizarre and disturbing in all the ways that make you sit up and say "Man, this book was fucking cool, and now I'm fucking cool because I read it." Yeah, that's right. I'm fucking cool now because I read this book. I'm going to bring this book to the local coffee shop where all the hipsters can look up from their copies of On The Road and sneer at me and the cock-riding battle-spermed cover. And I, like all people who have attained the divine level of coolness in which this book has delivered me, will feed off their sneers. I will use their sneers to power me like a light bulb. I will become their king. The baristas will become my concubines. The cinnamon dispenser shall be my wife. I will rule the Starbucks with an iron fist, leaving a trail of bloody corpses and spilt caramel macchiatos in my wake as I spread my spunk and splooge upon everything I touch because after reading this book I have learned it's secrets and I AM NOW GENGHIS CUM, TOO! *fap fap fap fap*
My only complaint is that this book is too short. I want more! Violet LeVoit is an immensely talent writer. These stories are infinitely nuanced and wholy engrossing. If you're on the fence about this book, I'm telling you right now, BUY IT.