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Gods of the Jungle Planet
Gods of the Jungle Planet
Even in Space . . . Nature Finds a Way.
After a wrong turn into a black hole, the last hope for humanity crash lands on planet 58-B, a lush land where life is short and brutal for any but the most badass.
War rages on between the raptors and a race of part-scorpion, part-humans known as the Skjerdals. Conflicts between members of the sex-crazed crew run high as hearts are broken and heads decapitated. Will humanity's last hope ever get off of this planet, or is humanity's last stand to be taken sitting down? And what ancient horrors are the raptor shamans trying to raise with their strange wicker doll?
The answers to these questions, and many others that you don't want to know the answers to, can only be answered by the GODS OF THE JUNGLE PLANET!
After a wrong turn into a black hole, the last hope for humanity crash lands on planet 58-B, a lush land where life is short and brutal for any but the most badass.
War rages on between the raptors and a race of part-scorpion, part-humans known as the Skjerdals. Conflicts between members of the sex-crazed crew run high as hearts are broken and heads decapitated. Will humanity's last hope ever get off of this planet, or is humanity's last stand to be taken sitting down? And what ancient horrors are the raptor shamans trying to raise with their strange wicker doll?
The answers to these questions, and many others that you don't want to know the answers to, can only be answered by the GODS OF THE JUNGLE PLANET!
- GenresScience FictionFiction
208 pages, Kindle Edition
First published January 2, 2012
91 people want to read
About the author
Vernon D. Burns
2 books10 followersVernon has been writing one book a week now for the last seventy two years, and he estimates that he has sent roughly 9,000 query letters to presses great and small. Very recently, at the age of 82, he teamed up with Guy and Campbell Publishing to finally bring his books to the public. He is also the author of such other classics as Sharkzilla, Cavern of the Diarrhia Monster, and the Gluyns, Elf Warrior Triacontatrology (thirty-book series).
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Displaying 1 - 13 of 13 reviews
September 9, 2021
wow. terrible, but with some accidentally good writing in it.
review to come.
heh. come.
....................................................................................................
okay, real review starts.... NOW!!
harry turtledove wishes he could write schlock the way vernon d.burns writes schlock.
this book has it all - dinosaurs, scorpions, genocide, dragons, 6-year-old homosexual biologists, boobies, boobies, boobies, meatloaf-as-anal-lubricant, naked mole rats, cranky environmentalist speeches about oil-dependency causing the end of civilization, black holes -oh, i already mentioned the meatloaf...
this book makes me wish i was a smarter person. finnegans wake is a cakewalk compared to the complexities this book offers. because i still can't figure out how sarah, who had her head bitten off from behind by a dinosaur, is able to "look on in horror" (which is a paraphrase but somehow i put it in quotes as though it were a quote) within the next few paragraphs and to later go on to have all manner of bouncy sexual intercourse and daft conversations and receive so much sexual and verbal abuse for the rest of the book. i just can't figure that puzzle out, because i am a stupid woman, fit only for breeding into and trading for other captives. my place is one thing i was not too dumb to learn from this amazing, life-changing book.
i also want to write a paper called "warble like a songbird: animal similes in the work of vernon d. burns." because it seems that, apart from food and sex, vernon d. burns' background must be in some kinda zoology. he knows a lot about how animals behave, particularly what the disposition of a wolverine is like. and i'm sure there is some amazing subtext at work here, after i make a cool pie chart about it...
so much to fall in love with here. intelligent bodies, judging by the "firm, taught stomachs of the women..."
hemepenes.
ooh, and the chilling foreshadowing of "you'll be like a petri dish..." superb.
this could be the new dianetics, people. get on board!
i hope this is in the running for best book of 2012 at the end of the year. i will certainly be voting for it.
come to my blog!
review to come.
heh. come.
....................................................................................................
okay, real review starts.... NOW!!
harry turtledove wishes he could write schlock the way vernon d.burns writes schlock.
this book has it all - dinosaurs, scorpions, genocide, dragons, 6-year-old homosexual biologists, boobies, boobies, boobies, meatloaf-as-anal-lubricant, naked mole rats, cranky environmentalist speeches about oil-dependency causing the end of civilization, black holes -oh, i already mentioned the meatloaf...
this book makes me wish i was a smarter person. finnegans wake is a cakewalk compared to the complexities this book offers. because i still can't figure out how sarah, who had her head bitten off from behind by a dinosaur, is able to "look on in horror" (which is a paraphrase but somehow i put it in quotes as though it were a quote) within the next few paragraphs and to later go on to have all manner of bouncy sexual intercourse and daft conversations and receive so much sexual and verbal abuse for the rest of the book. i just can't figure that puzzle out, because i am a stupid woman, fit only for breeding into and trading for other captives. my place is one thing i was not too dumb to learn from this amazing, life-changing book.
i also want to write a paper called "warble like a songbird: animal similes in the work of vernon d. burns." because it seems that, apart from food and sex, vernon d. burns' background must be in some kinda zoology. he knows a lot about how animals behave, particularly what the disposition of a wolverine is like. and i'm sure there is some amazing subtext at work here, after i make a cool pie chart about it...
so much to fall in love with here. intelligent bodies, judging by the "firm, taught stomachs of the women..."
hemepenes.
ooh, and the chilling foreshadowing of "you'll be like a petri dish..." superb.
this could be the new dianetics, people. get on board!
i hope this is in the running for best book of 2012 at the end of the year. i will certainly be voting for it.
come to my blog! 
May 24, 2012
Can I Have Just One More Look?
DJ Ian in the studio with Professor Murray Jay Siskind, Dean of the Popular Culture Faculty and Head of the Elvis Studies Department, College-on-the-Hill:
DJ Ian: A summary of "Gods of the Jungle Planet" might make it sound like trash fiction.
Prof. Murray Jay Siskind: It's much more than that.
I read it in one day, and it was a great and humbling experience, let me tell you. Close to mystical.
Modern day society is suffering brain fade. We need an occasional catastrophe to break up the incessant bombardment of information.
"Gods of the Jungle Planet" is just the catastrophe we need.
DJ Ian: There are a lot of boobs in the novel. And every time they appear, somebody dies.
Prof. Murray Jay Siskind: Usually, the bearer of the boobs.
DJ Ian: If not the barer of the boobs.
Prof. Murray Jay Siskind: But that's it. The key take away point of the novel.
Boobs are the Portent of Catastrophe.
Boobs have preceded every catastrophe in the history of mankind.
Only, nobody was looking at them properly. We need to be taught how to read boobs and divine their real meaning.
"Gods of the Jungle Planet" is just the book we need to help us learn how to look. With an appropriate insight and sensibility.
Everybody who reads it will look at boobs in a different light, from a different perspective, um, from an, um,...
DJ Ian: Acute angle?
Prof. Murray Jay Siskind: That's right. A cute angle.
DJ Ian: You've previously criticised David Foster Wallace for lacking the presence of women nearer the center of the narration. Do you think Vernon D. Burns remedies this flaw? Does he elevate women to their proper place in fiction?
Prof. Murray Jay Siskind: Very much so, and in a way that could almost compensate for or balance Wallace.
I admit that I've always been partial to women.
To quote myself, I fall apart at the sight of long legs, striding, briskly, as a breeze carries up from the river, on a weekday, in the play of morning light.
And what fun it is to talk to an intelligent woman wearing nylon stockings as she crosses her legs.
Vernon Burns, I suspect, shares these predilections and can write wonderfully complicated women.
DJ Ian in the studio with Professor Murray Jay Siskind, Dean of the Popular Culture Faculty and Head of the Elvis Studies Department, College-on-the-Hill:
DJ Ian: A summary of "Gods of the Jungle Planet" might make it sound like trash fiction.
Prof. Murray Jay Siskind: It's much more than that.
I read it in one day, and it was a great and humbling experience, let me tell you. Close to mystical.
Modern day society is suffering brain fade. We need an occasional catastrophe to break up the incessant bombardment of information.
"Gods of the Jungle Planet" is just the catastrophe we need.
DJ Ian: There are a lot of boobs in the novel. And every time they appear, somebody dies.
Prof. Murray Jay Siskind: Usually, the bearer of the boobs.
DJ Ian: If not the barer of the boobs.
Prof. Murray Jay Siskind: But that's it. The key take away point of the novel.
Boobs are the Portent of Catastrophe.
Boobs have preceded every catastrophe in the history of mankind.
Only, nobody was looking at them properly. We need to be taught how to read boobs and divine their real meaning.
"Gods of the Jungle Planet" is just the book we need to help us learn how to look. With an appropriate insight and sensibility.
Everybody who reads it will look at boobs in a different light, from a different perspective, um, from an, um,...
DJ Ian: Acute angle?
Prof. Murray Jay Siskind: That's right. A cute angle.
DJ Ian: You've previously criticised David Foster Wallace for lacking the presence of women nearer the center of the narration. Do you think Vernon D. Burns remedies this flaw? Does he elevate women to their proper place in fiction?
Prof. Murray Jay Siskind: Very much so, and in a way that could almost compensate for or balance Wallace.
I admit that I've always been partial to women.
To quote myself, I fall apart at the sight of long legs, striding, briskly, as a breeze carries up from the river, on a weekday, in the play of morning light.
And what fun it is to talk to an intelligent woman wearing nylon stockings as she crosses her legs.
Vernon Burns, I suspect, shares these predilections and can write wonderfully complicated women.
January 4, 2012
Hahaahahahahahahah!! I love this book!
That's right. This bad boy is 5 stars!! But let me remind you that gr defines 5 stars as "it was amazing." And that's truly what this is: It is amazing...
...ly bad. Those 5 stars represent negative stars.
This deliberate romp into baaaad writing hits one of my tenderest buttons (twss). When a number of items or people is given, I automatically keep track as they go by or, in this case, are killed in various ways. This bastard author throws out a couple winners right away, going from a group of 5 victims to suddenly 8+ and a decapitated woman is, boop, alive!
Soooo many similes. Flowing like water from a broken fjord.
The men are manly. The women are helpless; they are, however, stunning, fragile, and big-breasted.
All the relations in this book? Sick!
Sexist, pulpy, violent, gross, meta, unable to count...clearly the author downed a cauldron of beans, cabbage, beets (for the color), and hot sauce before crapping out this pile. Well done!!
That's right. This bad boy is 5 stars!! But let me remind you that gr defines 5 stars as "it was amazing." And that's truly what this is: It is amazing...
...ly bad. Those 5 stars represent negative stars.
This deliberate romp into baaaad writing hits one of my tenderest buttons (twss). When a number of items or people is given, I automatically keep track as they go by or, in this case, are killed in various ways. This bastard author throws out a couple winners right away, going from a group of 5 victims to suddenly 8+ and a decapitated woman is, boop, alive!
Soooo many similes. Flowing like water from a broken fjord.
The men are manly. The women are helpless; they are, however, stunning, fragile, and big-breasted.
All the relations in this book? Sick!
Sexist, pulpy, violent, gross, meta, unable to count...clearly the author downed a cauldron of beans, cabbage, beets (for the color), and hot sauce before crapping out this pile. Well done!!
January 17, 2012
Ever get the feeling that your conflicting desires or beliefs or viewpoints are in such irreconcilable opposition that you're actually two distinct personalities housed in one corporeal form? I'd bet dollars to donuts that V.D. Burns is often in this state. I'm no fancified cityboy collegeboy psychologist but I'm pretty sure he is afflicted with The Disease Formerly Known As Multiple Personality Disorder or maybe—just maybe—isn't a person at all, but rather a pseudonym for a wily ghostwriting duo, hell-bent on rattling the cage of the status quo with this clusterfuck made out of other clusterfucks, wrapped in a cloak of "Dude, are you being sarcastic?" and answered with the patchwork of "I don't even know anymore."
The book oscillates wildly between the poles of various spectrums: parody and earnestness, incisive sentences and clunky what-the-fucks?, take-it-or-leave-it action-adventure porn and apocalyptic somberness.
At times my heart raced like a thoroughbred. At others it floated like a spent otter on sedatives. Laughed like a hyena at the Apollo. Wrinkled my brow incredulously like a, I dunno, wrinkley animal. Fought upstream like a sexy salmon or would return to the flow like suicidal sheep towards the wolfpack. Did I mention laughing like a hyena?
There were times when I felt like this book was written by the infamous Tommy Wiseau. When a character would yell something like "Our very lives are at stake!" I couldn't help but hear the great unintentionally-B-film-making auteur/amazingly untalented actor yelling "You are tearing me apart, Lisa!"
This book conjured up several boyhood memories. Mental images of poring over books about dinosaurs in the library; the special admiration (?) for the velociraptor; the rush of seeing Jurassic Park for the first time. The Skjerdals humanlike anatomies being made unhuman by a scorpion tail ("their most dangerous weapon") jutting out from the forehead reminded me of this one dream my childhood friend told me about, which we must've laughed uproariously at, in which all the women in his dream had penises growing out from the backs of their knees.
V.D. Burns has taken the hormonally-tyrannized minds of 10,000 adolescent boys and distilled their sex and violence crazed ids into a book. It's like a perverse magic trick. One might well imagine ol' Vern superstitiously bathing in the blood of such youthful males in preparation for this masterwork—a sort of masculine equivalent to that infamous Countess in days of yore who bathed in the blood of slaughtered virginal girls in order to maintain her own youth.
Stray thoughts: I really believed in Rita's fuckability. How am I not supposed to laugh everytime the name Flyrdknn is mentioned? How is a "cloudy night sky" empty if it's filled with clouds? Breasts are in a perpetual state of bounciness, lips always ruby and plump. How does someone get "ripped in half at the shoulder" when the shoulder is on the side of the body?
As fun as this was to read I have to echo the following passage to describe how I felt by its end: "Oh, thank God!" Rita ejaculated. I recommend that other readers experience this fun and relief from the fun themselves. It's a motha flyrdknn good time.
Lastly, a promotional blurb, as my gift to the prolifically unpublished author:
"Gods of the Jungle Planet is like Alien and/or Predator and/or Alien vs. Predator was skull-fucked to death by Harry Turtledove's keyboard and revived by an Earth-shaking all-male Comicon orgy...on acid...and gang-raped by Steven Spielberg's special effects team circa 1993...also on acid."
The book oscillates wildly between the poles of various spectrums: parody and earnestness, incisive sentences and clunky what-the-fucks?, take-it-or-leave-it action-adventure porn and apocalyptic somberness.
At times my heart raced like a thoroughbred. At others it floated like a spent otter on sedatives. Laughed like a hyena at the Apollo. Wrinkled my brow incredulously like a, I dunno, wrinkley animal. Fought upstream like a sexy salmon or would return to the flow like suicidal sheep towards the wolfpack. Did I mention laughing like a hyena?
There were times when I felt like this book was written by the infamous Tommy Wiseau. When a character would yell something like "Our very lives are at stake!" I couldn't help but hear the great unintentionally-B-film-making auteur/amazingly untalented actor yelling "You are tearing me apart, Lisa!"
This book conjured up several boyhood memories. Mental images of poring over books about dinosaurs in the library; the special admiration (?) for the velociraptor; the rush of seeing Jurassic Park for the first time. The Skjerdals humanlike anatomies being made unhuman by a scorpion tail ("their most dangerous weapon") jutting out from the forehead reminded me of this one dream my childhood friend told me about, which we must've laughed uproariously at, in which all the women in his dream had penises growing out from the backs of their knees.
V.D. Burns has taken the hormonally-tyrannized minds of 10,000 adolescent boys and distilled their sex and violence crazed ids into a book. It's like a perverse magic trick. One might well imagine ol' Vern superstitiously bathing in the blood of such youthful males in preparation for this masterwork—a sort of masculine equivalent to that infamous Countess in days of yore who bathed in the blood of slaughtered virginal girls in order to maintain her own youth.
Stray thoughts: I really believed in Rita's fuckability. How am I not supposed to laugh everytime the name Flyrdknn is mentioned? How is a "cloudy night sky" empty if it's filled with clouds? Breasts are in a perpetual state of bounciness, lips always ruby and plump. How does someone get "ripped in half at the shoulder" when the shoulder is on the side of the body?
As fun as this was to read I have to echo the following passage to describe how I felt by its end: "Oh, thank God!" Rita ejaculated. I recommend that other readers experience this fun and relief from the fun themselves. It's a motha flyrdknn good time.
Lastly, a promotional blurb, as my gift to the prolifically unpublished author:
"Gods of the Jungle Planet is like Alien and/or Predator and/or Alien vs. Predator was skull-fucked to death by Harry Turtledove's keyboard and revived by an Earth-shaking all-male Comicon orgy...on acid...and gang-raped by Steven Spielberg's special effects team circa 1993...also on acid."
September 3, 2017
CAUTION: in honor of GODS OF THE JUNGLE PLANET, this is written in the BIZARRO non-STYLE. I seriously advise you to read no further. Seriously! DON'T DO IT!
January 4, 2012
Have you ever been lied to by a five-year old? Where the kid starts telling you a story that is obviously made up, but every time the kid starts getting bored with it, they add new ridiculous details that make it even more implausible? And they have no self-awareness that will help them realize you know they're pulling every idea straight out of their ass? You ever had that happen? That's what reading this book is like.
Except it's not written by a five-year old. No: this A.D.D.-influenced opus is a randomly-selected wad of cliches all balled up and squashed together, united with the cheap glue of irony. This book tries so hard to be a loving parody of pulp sci fi, yet in this attempt falls on its face and then starts crying like a little bitch. Because, unlike classics of pulp sci fi, it never for a moment is able to take itself seriously. That missing feeling of authenticity is why I can't give this book the prestigious 3 stars of Killer Crabs.
If I could give this book 2.5 stars, that's what it would get. The quality of the writing is a one; the ridiculousness of the storyline is a four; the witty humor is a three; the constant barrage of inept sex scenes is a 1.5. Add them all, divide by four, and add .13 for the faux-book blurbs at the end, and you get 2.5.
And yes, to answer those questions you've been asking yourself: this book was really written by the same Vernon D. Burns who wrote such other classics as Sharkzilla, Cavern of the Diarrhia Monster, and the Gluyns, Elf Warrior Triacontatrology (thirty-book series). So, yes, the book is just as stupid as all those other books.
You haven't read any of them? I suppose that's not surprising. After all none of the books by Burns have ever been published before now. Vernon has been writing one book a week now for the last seventy two years, and he estimates that he has sent roughly 9,000 query letters to presses great and small. Now, at the age of 102, he has decided to go the self-publication route.
Why has he been turned down? Is it because he has no concept of linearity, and dead characters all of a sudden turn out to be alive, important events are skipped over remorselessly, and the world of his novels contain no internal logic whatsoever? Or is it because his sex scenes would make Ron Jeremy feel violated?
No. It's because Gods of the Jungle Planet--and I would assume these other titles as well--break all laws of physics. You see, at a certain point, literature becomes so bad that it's good. This is a law of physics. This is why Evil Dead II and Troll 2 are both scientifically proven to be better than Amistad.
However, Gods of the Jungle Planet is worse than both of these movies, yet does not become so bad it's good. It remains bad in a bad kind of way. It is paradoxical.
Perhaps I'm not the best person to review this book, though. . . after all, I got bored while reading Douglas Adams, and I also helped write Gods of the Jungle Planet. You don't think any real-life parents would be cruel enough to name their kid V.D. Burns, do you?
So, you can't really trust me to be objective, right? It could be even worse than I'm making it out to be. Or it could be better, because books that try to remain funny for 200 pages usually start feeling tedious about halfway through for me. I cannot be a good judge of them.
I suppose if you want to know how bad/good this is, you'll just have to read it. You can buy it right now on Amazon.com, temporarily discounted to whatever price it's at now!
Except it's not written by a five-year old. No: this A.D.D.-influenced opus is a randomly-selected wad of cliches all balled up and squashed together, united with the cheap glue of irony. This book tries so hard to be a loving parody of pulp sci fi, yet in this attempt falls on its face and then starts crying like a little bitch. Because, unlike classics of pulp sci fi, it never for a moment is able to take itself seriously. That missing feeling of authenticity is why I can't give this book the prestigious 3 stars of Killer Crabs.
If I could give this book 2.5 stars, that's what it would get. The quality of the writing is a one; the ridiculousness of the storyline is a four; the witty humor is a three; the constant barrage of inept sex scenes is a 1.5. Add them all, divide by four, and add .13 for the faux-book blurbs at the end, and you get 2.5.
And yes, to answer those questions you've been asking yourself: this book was really written by the same Vernon D. Burns who wrote such other classics as Sharkzilla, Cavern of the Diarrhia Monster, and the Gluyns, Elf Warrior Triacontatrology (thirty-book series). So, yes, the book is just as stupid as all those other books.
You haven't read any of them? I suppose that's not surprising. After all none of the books by Burns have ever been published before now. Vernon has been writing one book a week now for the last seventy two years, and he estimates that he has sent roughly 9,000 query letters to presses great and small. Now, at the age of 102, he has decided to go the self-publication route.
Why has he been turned down? Is it because he has no concept of linearity, and dead characters all of a sudden turn out to be alive, important events are skipped over remorselessly, and the world of his novels contain no internal logic whatsoever? Or is it because his sex scenes would make Ron Jeremy feel violated?
No. It's because Gods of the Jungle Planet--and I would assume these other titles as well--break all laws of physics. You see, at a certain point, literature becomes so bad that it's good. This is a law of physics. This is why Evil Dead II and Troll 2 are both scientifically proven to be better than Amistad.
However, Gods of the Jungle Planet is worse than both of these movies, yet does not become so bad it's good. It remains bad in a bad kind of way. It is paradoxical.
Perhaps I'm not the best person to review this book, though. . . after all, I got bored while reading Douglas Adams, and I also helped write Gods of the Jungle Planet. You don't think any real-life parents would be cruel enough to name their kid V.D. Burns, do you?
So, you can't really trust me to be objective, right? It could be even worse than I'm making it out to be. Or it could be better, because books that try to remain funny for 200 pages usually start feeling tedious about halfway through for me. I cannot be a good judge of them.
I suppose if you want to know how bad/good this is, you'll just have to read it. You can buy it right now on Amazon.com, temporarily discounted to whatever price it's at now!
February 16, 2012
This book is like if the best book in the world had a lust affair with the worst book in the world, and that affair resulted in the birth of two children, a brother and a sister. Then, those children had an incestuous affair with each other, which resulted in the birth of two children, a brother and a sister. Then, those incestuous children had an incestuous affair, which resulted in the birth of twins, a brother and a sister. Then those incestuous, incestuous twins had twincest with each other, which resulted in the birth of a child whom they named Quasimodo for no particular reason. Then, Quasimodo, the incestuous, incestuous, twincestuous child, committed bestiality with a giant, alien crab; and then the seed from that mating read a blog about oil shortage, watched Jurassic Park, and decided to write a book. In other words, this book is spectacular.
The funny thing about this book is that almost everything in the entire story seemed like an error, but nothing seemed like a mistake. So, goes toward proving what a waste of time this entire book is. I like that.
One of the best parts:
Axis[, chief warrior of the raptors,] stood on the hill overlooking the village. So many lives, all his responsibility . . . . [A] pyre was burning nearby, the bodies of raptors and Skjerdals piled high, a thick black column of smoke rising up. Looking at the column, Axis imagined he could see the faces of all those lost lives in that smoke: the face of Asnyllo, a good childhood friend. The face of Blasdij, a girl he once dated. He thought he saw some horses, too, and a clown, but it was the faces of all those dead raptors that really bothered him. And maybe that clown a little bit.
That quote would be akin to a spoiler if there was a plot in this book, but there is not a plot, so don’t worry. It’s all pretty much random stuff like that. And a lot of wild sex.
The rape was interesting in this book because it was mostly not rape in that it was sex with a blow-up doll who did not want sex, but begged for sex, and then strangely morphed into a “warrior queen” who begged for sex. So, that raises the question of whether prostitution can ever be voluntary and answers it with a no. There is also that . . . other rape scene . . . with the giant mole rat. So, there’s a lot of rapey, non-rapey sex with creepy blow-up doll people.
Also, there is a homosexual biologist, whose scorpion tail pusses and spurts ineffectually and who is a homosexual.
Basically, this book is either the best or the worst ever, or some kind of incestuous spawn of the two, and scientists will study it for eons to come. I enjoyed reading it fully as much as I enjoyed reading Twilight, though I’d have to say I got more out of Twilight because this book probably is to dude culture what Twilight is to the ladies. I am not a dude. Also, there is no real, continuous story in Gods of the Jungle Planet, so there’s that. I probably laughed harder at this one than I laughed at Twilight, but that’s difficult to estimate. I laughed pretty hard while I was reading Twilight, but it does not have a part with a clown.
V.D. Burns, kids. Get tested; use protection.
__________________________
A kindle version of this book was forced upon me by a lizard-like being with a scorpion tale protruding from his head. He was asking for meatloaf.
The funny thing about this book is that almost everything in the entire story seemed like an error, but nothing seemed like a mistake. So, goes toward proving what a waste of time this entire book is. I like that.
One of the best parts:
Axis[, chief warrior of the raptors,] stood on the hill overlooking the village. So many lives, all his responsibility . . . . [A] pyre was burning nearby, the bodies of raptors and Skjerdals piled high, a thick black column of smoke rising up. Looking at the column, Axis imagined he could see the faces of all those lost lives in that smoke: the face of Asnyllo, a good childhood friend. The face of Blasdij, a girl he once dated. He thought he saw some horses, too, and a clown, but it was the faces of all those dead raptors that really bothered him. And maybe that clown a little bit.
That quote would be akin to a spoiler if there was a plot in this book, but there is not a plot, so don’t worry. It’s all pretty much random stuff like that. And a lot of wild sex.
The rape was interesting in this book because it was mostly not rape in that it was sex with a blow-up doll who did not want sex, but begged for sex, and then strangely morphed into a “warrior queen” who begged for sex. So, that raises the question of whether prostitution can ever be voluntary and answers it with a no. There is also that . . . other rape scene . . . with the giant mole rat. So, there’s a lot of rapey, non-rapey sex with creepy blow-up doll people.
Also, there is a homosexual biologist, whose scorpion tail pusses and spurts ineffectually and who is a homosexual.
Basically, this book is either the best or the worst ever, or some kind of incestuous spawn of the two, and scientists will study it for eons to come. I enjoyed reading it fully as much as I enjoyed reading Twilight, though I’d have to say I got more out of Twilight because this book probably is to dude culture what Twilight is to the ladies. I am not a dude. Also, there is no real, continuous story in Gods of the Jungle Planet, so there’s that. I probably laughed harder at this one than I laughed at Twilight, but that’s difficult to estimate. I laughed pretty hard while I was reading Twilight, but it does not have a part with a clown.
V.D. Burns, kids. Get tested; use protection.
__________________________
A kindle version of this book was forced upon me by a lizard-like being with a scorpion tale protruding from his head. He was asking for meatloaf.
June 16, 2012
[REVIEW FOUND IN DUSTBIN]
Gods of the Jungle Planet
Review by Gordon Lish Jnr.
I am the illegitimate son of famous editor Gordon Lish, a.k.a. The Man Who Made Carver Readable. I say illegitimate since it was never proven my father slept with anyone in his life. I review stories online now since the New York Review of Books fired me for stealing their paperclips and their smug self-indulgent elitist remarks. They accused me of being a humourless reviewer who frequently missed the point but those people are beneath my intelligence. I am currently betrothed to Michiko Kakutani in what has been dubbed “the most precise and correct marriage of the century.”
Mr. Burns’s debut novel is a brilliant example of how to write an unforgivable piece of subliterate codswallop for the Kindle reader who will swallow anything with gore and sex. The following analysis should be read as an editorial assay in how not to write an English sentence or release a self-published manuscript into the Kindle market before impoverished readers who’ve already downloaded all Dickens but can’t seem to get past page two of The Pickwick Papers without crying. The spelling errors will be overlooked for reasons, largely, of mercy, and because Michiko is running my bath.
p4 There was an audible sigh behind them.
Those inaudible sighs are so passé. Far better audible sighs. Like this: “Huuuuuhh.”
p5 the sudden awareness reddened his cheeks
I love when awarenesses have that effect. Sometimes awarenesses bestow me with unwanted woodies on buses and I need a sudden awareness to distract my mind from the pressure.
p6 “I don’t need a history lesson, Bob! I know what happened!”
Do you hear that? That sound of someone covering their arse after an egregious info dump? Like this: “Shhhhddddpppp!”
The partition was silent for a moment.
I don’t know about you, but I can’t shut my partitions up. My dividers, my sectionalizations, my segmentations, all they do is complain about the inadequacies of their hooks and jambs.
p7 Robert could almost hear the indecision floating through the air.
Ah, those audible, airborne indecisions! If only my ears could have caught all those irresolutions adrift in board meetings, I might have been Senior Editor at the NYRofB by now!
p8 like tiny rivulets of pure pain
So you’re hanging this sentence on the word ‘rivulets’ but now you need ballast. So you use ‘tiny’ (forgetting rivulet means small stream) to prop up the fancy word. You still need a quasi-poetical image to round things off and go with ‘pure pain’ (it alliterates! four letters each!), forgetting pain is a negative sensation and unsuited for linkage with a tiny small stream. Oh dear.
p9 Snyder swore quietly to himself. “What the hell is going on?”
I hate to state the obvious but swearing to oneself usually doesn’t mean saying it out loud. As I quietly wrote to myself on this public review.
p10 internal intercom
Both those words share a syllable and flow freely to the writer writing in his sleep, possibly under the influence of some Colombian herbal latte. You could have an ‘internal intercom,’ but then you’d also have a cheap alliterator who doesn’t know what he’s talking about.
p11 An azure sky hung over the sloping hills
I often hang my skies (fuchsia usually, occasionally a dark red) over my bedroom door. Those skies are so slinky, you can drape them anywhere, especially over a sloping hill.
p12 felt a chill run down her spine
Chills do not run. Chills do not tapdance, boogie, skip, leap or hustle. Chills occur due to the body’s response to a cold environment, or due to our response to danger or fear. The sentence should read: ‘ . . . felt a chill occur due to her body’s response to fear or terror detected in her environment.’
p13 blood poured down across his brow like some strange baptism
The blood is being poured (by whom?) not only down but across his brow. So the blood is, effectively, making a crossword on this devoured man’s brow. Like some strange baptism being performed by a crossword-obsessed vampire priest.
p14 With a strange sound, a light flashed in the sky.
It’s important to remember the difference between sounds and sights. Sounds are audible (unless they’re inaudible sounds, like inaudible sighs) and sights are visible (unless they’re invisible sights, like ghosts doing semaphore).
p15 His accent was barely detectable these days
Oh the narrator suddenly wants to engage me in chat as though he’s a character, does he? Well how rude of me! I didn’t realise you wanted to chat. Yes, times are rough these days. I know, his accent was quite pronounced a few weeks ago, but suddenly it’s barely detectable. I used my accent detector and I only found a few stray syllables from my sister.
p16 the unpleasant effect of peeling a man’s skin from his body, like a tomato placed in boiling water
I don’t know many tomatoes that can peel a man’s skin from his body while in boiling water. I know a zucchini that can pull out someone’s tongue at room temperature, but that’s it.
p17 like some kind of bizarre flower.
I suppose a petunia in the Scottish Highlands would be a bizarre flower. Or heather in a park in Brooklyn, that might be a bizarre flower. (Although technically heather’s a heath).
p18 Her ample bust heaved as if she were near tears.
Busts heaving are a common sign of emotional distress in human females. Sighing busts (audible ones) also denote teariness. An ample bust also means a lady’s bust could be bigger but might be big enough for the average man. But there’s scope for a larger bust if the ampleness of the present bust proves unample for the serial masturbator.
p19 overgrown walls of the jungle
I hate when conurbations encroach upon the rainforest areas on planets. So many concrete walls outgrowing trees, birthing litters of bricks, sprouting small houses overrun by compost.
p20 she’d somehow retained a tan throughout their ten-year voyage
Basting oneself in the oven is a great way to retain that tan on ten-year space missions. Likewise drinking bronzer straight from the bottle keeps that skin all humming and turkeyed.
p21 menacing reptilian countenance
Like imagine a really vexed lizard. As though you’d stolen all a lizard’s flies for that evening’s supper. That.
p22 “Forgive me, Sarah,” he said, using her body as a raft
Classic misogyny disguised as a macabre gag. Hero touches the tits then the woman’s usefulness dissolves. The humour in using her headless corpse a raft also suggests the author to be a self-serving male tosspot who addresses partners as ‘baby’ and still thinks smoking is cool.
p23 grim countenance still upon him.
Whose countenance is loitering upon his own is unclear, perhaps that of the menacing reptile.
[REST OF REVIEW COVERED IN FOX POOP]
Gods of the Jungle Planet
Review by Gordon Lish Jnr.
I am the illegitimate son of famous editor Gordon Lish, a.k.a. The Man Who Made Carver Readable. I say illegitimate since it was never proven my father slept with anyone in his life. I review stories online now since the New York Review of Books fired me for stealing their paperclips and their smug self-indulgent elitist remarks. They accused me of being a humourless reviewer who frequently missed the point but those people are beneath my intelligence. I am currently betrothed to Michiko Kakutani in what has been dubbed “the most precise and correct marriage of the century.”
Mr. Burns’s debut novel is a brilliant example of how to write an unforgivable piece of subliterate codswallop for the Kindle reader who will swallow anything with gore and sex. The following analysis should be read as an editorial assay in how not to write an English sentence or release a self-published manuscript into the Kindle market before impoverished readers who’ve already downloaded all Dickens but can’t seem to get past page two of The Pickwick Papers without crying. The spelling errors will be overlooked for reasons, largely, of mercy, and because Michiko is running my bath.
p4 There was an audible sigh behind them.
Those inaudible sighs are so passé. Far better audible sighs. Like this: “Huuuuuhh.”
p5 the sudden awareness reddened his cheeks
I love when awarenesses have that effect. Sometimes awarenesses bestow me with unwanted woodies on buses and I need a sudden awareness to distract my mind from the pressure.
p6 “I don’t need a history lesson, Bob! I know what happened!”
Do you hear that? That sound of someone covering their arse after an egregious info dump? Like this: “Shhhhddddpppp!”
The partition was silent for a moment.
I don’t know about you, but I can’t shut my partitions up. My dividers, my sectionalizations, my segmentations, all they do is complain about the inadequacies of their hooks and jambs.
p7 Robert could almost hear the indecision floating through the air.
Ah, those audible, airborne indecisions! If only my ears could have caught all those irresolutions adrift in board meetings, I might have been Senior Editor at the NYRofB by now!
p8 like tiny rivulets of pure pain
So you’re hanging this sentence on the word ‘rivulets’ but now you need ballast. So you use ‘tiny’ (forgetting rivulet means small stream) to prop up the fancy word. You still need a quasi-poetical image to round things off and go with ‘pure pain’ (it alliterates! four letters each!), forgetting pain is a negative sensation and unsuited for linkage with a tiny small stream. Oh dear.
p9 Snyder swore quietly to himself. “What the hell is going on?”
I hate to state the obvious but swearing to oneself usually doesn’t mean saying it out loud. As I quietly wrote to myself on this public review.
p10 internal intercom
Both those words share a syllable and flow freely to the writer writing in his sleep, possibly under the influence of some Colombian herbal latte. You could have an ‘internal intercom,’ but then you’d also have a cheap alliterator who doesn’t know what he’s talking about.
p11 An azure sky hung over the sloping hills
I often hang my skies (fuchsia usually, occasionally a dark red) over my bedroom door. Those skies are so slinky, you can drape them anywhere, especially over a sloping hill.
p12 felt a chill run down her spine
Chills do not run. Chills do not tapdance, boogie, skip, leap or hustle. Chills occur due to the body’s response to a cold environment, or due to our response to danger or fear. The sentence should read: ‘ . . . felt a chill occur due to her body’s response to fear or terror detected in her environment.’
p13 blood poured down across his brow like some strange baptism
The blood is being poured (by whom?) not only down but across his brow. So the blood is, effectively, making a crossword on this devoured man’s brow. Like some strange baptism being performed by a crossword-obsessed vampire priest.
p14 With a strange sound, a light flashed in the sky.
It’s important to remember the difference between sounds and sights. Sounds are audible (unless they’re inaudible sounds, like inaudible sighs) and sights are visible (unless they’re invisible sights, like ghosts doing semaphore).
p15 His accent was barely detectable these days
Oh the narrator suddenly wants to engage me in chat as though he’s a character, does he? Well how rude of me! I didn’t realise you wanted to chat. Yes, times are rough these days. I know, his accent was quite pronounced a few weeks ago, but suddenly it’s barely detectable. I used my accent detector and I only found a few stray syllables from my sister.
p16 the unpleasant effect of peeling a man’s skin from his body, like a tomato placed in boiling water
I don’t know many tomatoes that can peel a man’s skin from his body while in boiling water. I know a zucchini that can pull out someone’s tongue at room temperature, but that’s it.
p17 like some kind of bizarre flower.
I suppose a petunia in the Scottish Highlands would be a bizarre flower. Or heather in a park in Brooklyn, that might be a bizarre flower. (Although technically heather’s a heath).
p18 Her ample bust heaved as if she were near tears.
Busts heaving are a common sign of emotional distress in human females. Sighing busts (audible ones) also denote teariness. An ample bust also means a lady’s bust could be bigger but might be big enough for the average man. But there’s scope for a larger bust if the ampleness of the present bust proves unample for the serial masturbator.
p19 overgrown walls of the jungle
I hate when conurbations encroach upon the rainforest areas on planets. So many concrete walls outgrowing trees, birthing litters of bricks, sprouting small houses overrun by compost.
p20 she’d somehow retained a tan throughout their ten-year voyage
Basting oneself in the oven is a great way to retain that tan on ten-year space missions. Likewise drinking bronzer straight from the bottle keeps that skin all humming and turkeyed.
p21 menacing reptilian countenance
Like imagine a really vexed lizard. As though you’d stolen all a lizard’s flies for that evening’s supper. That.
p22 “Forgive me, Sarah,” he said, using her body as a raft
Classic misogyny disguised as a macabre gag. Hero touches the tits then the woman’s usefulness dissolves. The humour in using her headless corpse a raft also suggests the author to be a self-serving male tosspot who addresses partners as ‘baby’ and still thinks smoking is cool.
p23 grim countenance still upon him.
Whose countenance is loitering upon his own is unclear, perhaps that of the menacing reptile.
[REST OF REVIEW COVERED IN FOX POOP]
January 27, 2012
ANCHORMAN: And now we're going over to Goodreads, where they're just about to present the coveted Worst Book Of All Time Award. I know we're looking forward to finding out who the winner will be. Stay tuned.
ZIPPY THE PINHEAD: Ladies, gentlemen and others. I am indeed Zippy the Pinhead!! Don't believe any malicious rumors you may have heard to the contrary, possibly based on my use of bold fonts and LOLcats. No sir, this is Zippy at your service!!!
[Audience applaud politely]
ZIPPY: No time to lose! In third place, we have Adolf Hitler's epic fantasy novel, Lords of the Swastika . Mr Ferric Jagger will be accepting it on behalf of Herr Hitler, who sadly couldn't make it today due to a previous speaking engagement with the Elders of Zion.
[A muscular blond man with a huge, phallic truncheon leaps athletically on to the stage and shakes ZIPPY's hand]
ZIPPY: Well done, Mr Jagger, well done! If only Mr. Spinrad hadn't spoiled things with that preface. He almost made it seem like the book had a point. And excuse me for saying it, but you were a little short on gratuitous sex...
VOICE FROM CROWD: What about the pleasure-femmes of Zind?
ZIPPY: Indeed, sir, indeed! More pleasure-femmes, that might have done it! Well, better luck next time...
[JAGGER gives a Nazi salute and leaps off the stage again]
ZIPPY: Continuing, our silver medal goes to Philip José Farmer's bad-taste masterpiece, A Feast Unknown . The jury would particularly like to praise the justly-renowned testicle-eating scene. The heroes of the book are here with us here today. Let's give them a big hand!
[Audience applaud again. TARZAN and DOC SAVAGE, both sporting giant erections, climb on to the stage.]
ZIPPY: Careful with those things, gentlemen! I'm standing well back.
[He cautiously hands over the medal. TARZAN and SAVAGE do something disgusting and then walk off again.]
ZIPPY: And now, the moment you've all been waiting for! Yes, the gold goes to Vernon D. Burns for Gods of the Jungle...
[TWO VELOCIRAPTORS have entered expectantly. Suddenly, a trap-door opens in the ceiling, dumping several hundred trashy French novels and a motley collection of scantily-dressed, huge-breasted women directly on top of them and ZIPPY. ZIPPY's muffled voice continues from the bottom of the heap]
ZIPPY: I'm sorry everyone, there's been a last-minute alteration in the program. Our first prize winner has just been changed to The Brigade Mondaine series ...
[The dazed VELOCIRAPTORS crawl out of the pile and manfully attempt to shake hands with the FRENCH SIRENS]
FIRST VELOCIRAPTOR: No hard feelings. It's a fair result. Our writing was too good.
SECOND VELOCIRAPTOR: Hardly any continuity errors.
FIRST VELOCIRAPTOR: And not enough boobies.
SECOND VELOCIRAPTOR: Yeah.
ZIPPY THE PINHEAD: Ladies, gentlemen and others. I am indeed Zippy the Pinhead!! Don't believe any malicious rumors you may have heard to the contrary, possibly based on my use of bold fonts and LOLcats. No sir, this is Zippy at your service!!!
[Audience applaud politely]
ZIPPY: No time to lose! In third place, we have Adolf Hitler's epic fantasy novel, Lords of the Swastika . Mr Ferric Jagger will be accepting it on behalf of Herr Hitler, who sadly couldn't make it today due to a previous speaking engagement with the Elders of Zion.
[A muscular blond man with a huge, phallic truncheon leaps athletically on to the stage and shakes ZIPPY's hand]
ZIPPY: Well done, Mr Jagger, well done! If only Mr. Spinrad hadn't spoiled things with that preface. He almost made it seem like the book had a point. And excuse me for saying it, but you were a little short on gratuitous sex...
VOICE FROM CROWD: What about the pleasure-femmes of Zind?
ZIPPY: Indeed, sir, indeed! More pleasure-femmes, that might have done it! Well, better luck next time...
[JAGGER gives a Nazi salute and leaps off the stage again]
ZIPPY: Continuing, our silver medal goes to Philip José Farmer's bad-taste masterpiece, A Feast Unknown . The jury would particularly like to praise the justly-renowned testicle-eating scene. The heroes of the book are here with us here today. Let's give them a big hand!
[Audience applaud again. TARZAN and DOC SAVAGE, both sporting giant erections, climb on to the stage.]
ZIPPY: Careful with those things, gentlemen! I'm standing well back.
[He cautiously hands over the medal. TARZAN and SAVAGE do something disgusting and then walk off again.]
ZIPPY: And now, the moment you've all been waiting for! Yes, the gold goes to Vernon D. Burns for Gods of the Jungle...
[TWO VELOCIRAPTORS have entered expectantly. Suddenly, a trap-door opens in the ceiling, dumping several hundred trashy French novels and a motley collection of scantily-dressed, huge-breasted women directly on top of them and ZIPPY. ZIPPY's muffled voice continues from the bottom of the heap]
ZIPPY: I'm sorry everyone, there's been a last-minute alteration in the program. Our first prize winner has just been changed to The Brigade Mondaine series ...
[The dazed VELOCIRAPTORS crawl out of the pile and manfully attempt to shake hands with the FRENCH SIRENS]
FIRST VELOCIRAPTOR: No hard feelings. It's a fair result. Our writing was too good.
SECOND VELOCIRAPTOR: Hardly any continuity errors.
FIRST VELOCIRAPTOR: And not enough boobies.
SECOND VELOCIRAPTOR: Yeah.
January 6, 2012
So far I have enjoyed every single book I have read in 2012. This book is no exception. I'm not giving it any negative stars. It would get every star I could possibly give it.
100% Team Raptor, btw.
100% Team Raptor, btw.
March 30, 2012
I don't think God will be very happy when He finds out you used his name in your title. Ph, and by the way, your initials V.D. also stand for Venereal Disease, which is really gross. You might want to think about just going by Vernon from now on.
The only good part of this book was the inter-species sex. I didn't like the gay guy. I thought he was stupid.
The only good part of this book was the inter-species sex. I didn't like the gay guy. I thought he was stupid.
January 19, 2012
This book is dick. The only thing worse is this:
to-be-consideread
July 22, 2012A Michael Recommendation!
Displaying 1 - 13 of 13 reviews