Here’s a relatively common human experience; having the veil of bullshit shrouding the truth behind some childhood concept ruthlessly torn from your eyes, and being exposed to the cruel realities of a world more twisted than a silly straw.
Your only image of Bill Cosby (or Bob Sagat, for the slightly younger crowd) was that of the consummate family man, always there to impart loving wisdom or perhaps slap a little Neosporin on that skinned knee. Then you were introduced to Cosby’s second LP of his comedy album “8:15 / 12:15”, or worse yet, seen his willingness to do anything for a cold, hard dollar when he agreed to participate in the travesty known as “Leonard Part 6”. Let’s not even delve into the jaw-dropping spectacle of witnessing Sagat on some Comedy Central stand-up routine and discovering his trusty sidekick Dave Coulier was getting blown at the theater by Alanis Morissette shortly after she had her braces removed.
You’d always been fond of that story about the Pilgrims and Native Americans sitting down and roasting a big, juicy turkey together on a spit, and bonding over frontier stories over ears of corn, before realizing those rotten, two-faced Injuns were running amok on the prairies scalping people and honky manifest destiny declared it was high time to wipe that scourge from the face of the Earth. Then you became more understanding and enlightened, and started thinking that perhaps everyone should have some sort of human rights and perhaps the European settlers were just a bunch of dicks. Alas, you finally grew up and realized that anyone still jacking off in a teepee at that point in history is basically an impediment to human progress, and the inability to get your act together isn’t a compelling argument for your continued existence. If you chronically smoke a lot of ‘the doobage’ you probably never moved past Stage III of this sensible pattern of thought.
You finally came to the conclusion that the underlying reason Uncle Creepy was advising you not to tell anyone about the way he touched you at night had nothing to do with the rest of the world ‘not understanding the love you shared’. Let’s pretend I didn’t say that and mosey along.
None of these awakenings can possibly compare to the glory of discovering that Roald Dahl, who I had only known of from my rather not-awesome childhood encounter with James and the Giant Peach, was actually a master at spinning a truly ribald, adult yarn. I have to admit that I was somewhat startled at first to see a Dahl book with the word Bitch right there in the title, and it was basically that intrigue that sold me on this dilapidated volume at a used book store. Truly, I wasn’t interested in anything even remotely like the exploits of James, and although this collection of short stories certainly claimed to be a solid departure from that flimsy fare, I’ve fallen for that gimmick before, and probably will again, so I have to admit that I proceeded with caution, reassuring myself that if it started getting too lame and childish, flinging it into the nearest fire was a totally viable option.
Well, I’m here to proudly confirm that Switch Bitch certainly does not disappoint; it does not pander to a pre-teen audience, while also managing to steer well clear of mindless profanity. I personally consider this a difficult tightrope to walk, and applaud Dahl for his overwhelming success; I myself couldn’t do it, sure I can coo at a baby and jibber at them like I give a shit, but then turn away and immediately begin spewing my usual, as(hole)inine crap right out of the other side of my mouth. Perhaps I just don’t have much of a middle ground. But Dahl, he’s got the goods, and he’s got them in spades. Let me also confess I don’t quite know how many instances constitute that standard these days for ‘spades’, but he displays his storytelling might with four kickass stories in Switch Bitch, and if two is a pair, three can count as several, well, four seems about right to be considered ‘spades’ by this ignorant whelp.
The book first brings forth its finest offering, “The Visitor”, a truly righteous romp. The story proper is prefaced by a narrator advising that the ensuing tale is one of the many momentous exploits of his badass Uncle Oswald Cornelius, a figure long-estranged from the family and shrouded in mystery, or, as Dahl describes “a wealthy bachelor with unsavoury but glamorous habits…the rest was all rumour and hearsay, but the rumours were so splendid and the hearsay so exotic that Oswald had long since become a shining hero and a legend to us all.” It’s been at least thirty years since the narrator has actually espied Oswald with his own eyes (or perhaps single eye, we never learn a whole lot about this schlub, and I’d hate to jump to conclusions), and quite unexpectedly, a crate containing the 28 unpublished journals of his Uncle, The Cornelius Diaries, are delivered into his safekeeping. In a brief explanatory letter, which stylishly manages to contain just enough cheeky nastiness to pique the reader’s interest and justify the man’s debauched reputation, Oswald suggests he’s slipping from this mortal coil, and in lieu of any monetary inheritance (which his wastrel ways have undoubtedly squandered) the narrator can consider himself the proud possessor of these illustrious journals, which chronicle his depraved zenith.
After giving the journals a thorough reading, the narrator decides that in spite of Oswald’s advice, the world has to be presented these fantastic stories. Oswald’s reasons against publication are quite sensible, as the majority include liaisons with women of high-esteem or connections to heads-of-state the world over, but the narrator, either itching to make a quick buck or venerate the oversexed nature of his relative, can’t abide letting these tales go untold. So he selects an entry, the very last journal entry, no less, to share with the world, on the criteria that it is the least incriminating of the lot. Before presenting the story at hand, there are a few things which the narrator needs to impart concerning the gentleman serving as the protagonist in this fantastic tale.
1) “He was not a normal man. He was not even a normally polygamous man. He was, to be honest, such a wanton and incorrigible philanderer that no bride on earth would have put up with him for more than a few days” While this sums it up, the several-page description of his habits is side-splittingly hilarious.
2)His interests (aside from trim) include Chinese porcelain, opera, and vast collections of walking-sticks and spiders. Again, several pages describing his employment of these hobbies (especially the walking-sticks) in the conquest of snizzatch were enough to warrant my doing a load of laundry from repeated instances of pissing myself.
3)Okay, I can’t just leave well enough alone with the walking-sticks. His collection consists purely of sticks from famous historical figures (including King Farouk, Dickens, Wilde, FDR), and he invites his guests to give them a try. One guest is persuaded to give the ‘Tolstoy’ a try, and agrees it’s superb to grasp the stick of that great man. Then he asks them to try the ‘Goebbels’ whilst creeping them out with his mad powers of suggestion. When the dupe confesses “It’s terrifying!”, Oswald assures “Of course it is. Some people pass out completely. They keel right over!” To me, this is the highest level comedy can reach, and if it isn’t your cup of tea, you can probably stop reading right about now, there is officially nothing worthwhile in this review for you; you obviously don’t appreciate Roald’s comedic genius, and my attempts at humor are just plain shitty, especially when juxtaposed with this echelon of brilliance.
Anyway, the first of the four stories begin with this enigmatic and awesome character in the midst of peril; his stylish car is running short of fuel during an exodus from Cairo, prompted by the need to escape the clingy victim of yet another tryst, and he’s about to be stranded in the Sinai Desert. He manages to get to a service station, and while waiting for proper repairs, he hunts scorpions and shows his true, hilarious, bigoted, upper-class colors. Luckily, a posh traveler in a Rolls-Royce arrives and he immediately befriends this man and is off to this fine gentleman’s sprawling palace, where he’s confronted with perhaps the most difficult decision of his life: should he seduce the man’s absolutely stunning and provocative wife, or his totally hot-ass and equally alluring daughter. Laughs abound en route to the climax, and when this story wrapped up, I found myself hoping all four stories concerned this noble stud.
Luckily, Dahl isn’t a one-trick pony, and immediately begins kicking ass on all fronts with the second story, “The Great Switcheroo”. My new hero, Vic, is stultifyingly bored whilst chilling at a cocktail party hosted by his next door neighbors, and eventually manages to ditch his wife, the lovely Mary. After abandoning her to the trite routine of humdrum gossip, he first encounters the hostess, Samantha, who he had a serious urge to lay the wood to, and then her husband and his good drinking buddy Jerry. Hosting the party seems to have been quite the pain in the ass for Jerry, and he commiserates with Vic while they slam a few drinks, and after a time, Vic’s urge to lay Samantha gets the better of him, but not wanting to offend his bro, he decides that the best way to go about getting a piece of that ass is in trade, and spins a ‘would you believe’ yarn about how a guy he works with managed to pull off a wife-swapping arrangement with one of his neighbors. Jerry is exceptionally intrigued by the idea of throwing a bone to Mary, and takes the bait, suggesting that if Vic’s co-worker and his slovenly neighbor can hack it, the two of them can also perpetrate their own great switcheroo. Their conversations on the topic are uproariously entertaining and their conniving and scheming are ridiculously classic. I’m hoping this morsel convinces you to go and discover the execution of the plan for yourself.
The third story, “The Last Act” is hard-hat area; I think this one was Dahl’s appeal to a female audience, as if to compensate for the previous bawdy tales. It centers around a widow named Anna, and Dahl paints a compelling image of the perfect relationship in order to show exactly why this loss was so tremendous and justify the poor creature hitting rock bottom and wallowing in despair. While the first half of the story is rather funny, especially her encounters with her physician, Dr. Jacobs, the second half really didn’t tickle my fancy. Granted, the end isn’t supposed to be funny, but the melancholy overtones of the story seem to be a severe drag after the gentler chicanery of the first two stories.
Story four, the finale of this tome, was simply called “Bitch”; I thought this sounded pretty promising. Several words into the first sentence, I realized my dreams had been answered; Dahl was wrapping it up with another tale from the journals of Oswald Cornelius. Fucking Sweet! Having already dispensed with the background and formalities, and having outlined this maniac’s myriad august accolades earlier in the book, Dahl is now able to deliver more mayhem-per-word than previously, which can never hurt. This time around, Oswald is kicking it in Paris where he meets the olfactory chemist and pervert Henri Biotte. With Biotte’s years of research, and Cornelius’ funding, the duo embarks upon the creation of a cologne/aphrodisiac with the all the usual Love Potion # 9 pratfalls. While this doesn’t stray far from the usual message of ‘unbridled sexual magnetism isn’t always pretty’, Dahl manages to pull it off using his masterful whimsy.
I found this book to be not only an extremely entertaining light read, but a pleasant departure from the style of the only other book of his I’ve read. I’ll gladly sample anything else by Dahl, in the hopes that it contains a yarn or two concerning the man, the myth, Oswald Cornelius. Or if he pays me, of course.