I had no idea how great this book would be. My valve is still shut.

What can I say to the mongoloid fascists who don't understand the genius of Toole's rather grand being? Perhaps only that they should not be surprised to feel the lash on their shoulders!

Rarely have I had more fun reading a book. A hoot! I laughed hard! Not just an educated internal chuckle, but real sound emanating from my throat, COVID-laden spittle flying, and in some cases—"She's out somewhere failing her blood test"—a tummy ache from laughing so hard.

And pathos! Hard-earned and done with a light touch... This book is a real Voight-Kampff test. If you don't feel something, especially at the end, then I feel like there's a world where you're putting me up against a pockmarked wall for "not being right."

Thank God I don't write for a living or this book would've given me real existential angst. I mean, how do you top this? I'm kind of high on the pure joy of having finished this, but it might be my favorite American novel. God, I need a Dr. Nut to cool off!

Also: A thousand curses on the mediocrities who sent Toole to an early grave like Gottlieb. Ten-thousand curses to the odious Tom Bissell who took time from his busy schedule of writing sewious mowal pwose about children's videogames to write a hit piece on this Holy Work. Their punishment awaits them in the hereafter. And in Bissell's case in the present, knowing that he relates to Toole as a dingleberry does to an Angel.

Read it if you value your soul. If there's anything like predestination, how you feel about this book will tell you where it's headed.

Rating: 5 weenies,