The mind b(oggle)s at all the novel (fric)tions taking p(lace) every second of every day. Who could hope to index even a fr(action) of them and ins(piss)(ate) (ream)s of paper (in)to a (thick) cube of con(nub)ial (and casual) contortions for enterp(rising) (sex)nauts that are looking to emancipate themselves from the untuto(red) need to p(rose)lytize in foreign countries (i.e. engage in (missionary) activities.) and wish to arm themselves for full contact Kyokushin Body Karate by engraving their hypothalamic wafers (not to be confused with the principle ingredient of beach sand (i.e. silicon) (not to be confused with the principle ingredient of augmented chest plumage (i.e. silicone) although you’re (in)vited to imagine fab technicians in (ass)less bunny suits (violating) the spirit of clean rooms and (ruin)ing transistors aplenty with the (ejection) of (orga)nic contaminants via surrep(tit)ious fla(gel)lation) utilizing (CAD) workstations (i.e. terminals in your imagination) to self (insert) you and your amorous liaisons in the photolitho(graphic) printing process (don’t forge(t) your UV l(ight) mask) where you can then be put th(rough) your paces, par(tit)ioned into die(s), then (package)d bet(ween) a (sub)str(ate) and a (h(eat) (spread)er (alright, this is getting pretty (raunchy).
(This parenthetical mood I’ve been in lately is really interfering with my ability to focus, so, for the remainder of this review, I am committed to flipping my nipples with a rubber band whenever the urge to bracket additional information is indulged) Having been bombarded with ions to alter my conducive properties many times before, (i.e. doping) [!], it is no surprise that I read most of this book while Queening (i.e. electroplating) [!] a fortunate soul in order to produce a labile environment for any new information to inundate dormant synaptic junctions with coital custard. But, having debased myself with actions fit only to occupy remote corners of urban dictionary, it is folly to seek instruction from manuals of this kind. Like a professional cage fighter seeking an edge by exploring aerobic kickboxing classes, I see only the rudimentary steps of my long journey here recapitulated for the incipient sexologist, “But...” I said to myself, while maneuvering my cloaca over bristly facial terrain due to a sudden itch, “This does not derogate from my duty to rate this ambitious work on the basis of its stated goal, which is not to satisfy those of us who have moved past the knee of the exponential in matters of deviancy, but rather to help those who desire an erogenous directory full of numbers to punch when fingering the dial at random fails to produce meaningful dialogue. In this, it succeeds.
Further commentary while Queening:
“I note a distinct lack of the Kentucky Tractor Puller... What’s that? Oh that tickles, ask me again and enunciate. That’s good. Yes, anyway, it’s when you take his Charlton Heston in your Seikan Tunnel and then you clench as if trying to crush a walnut with your butt cheeks, and here it always helps me to think of John-Claude Van Damme. You want me to demonstrate? Alright. Are you okay? It sounded like someone wringing a duck’s neck. I’ve been working out. You then take off running, towing the gentleman behind you like a hirsute Volkswagen. It’s particularly funny if your grip is strong enough to pull him from the seclusion of the bedroom and into some embarrassing public display, perhaps even into traffic. You’re tired? Wretch! Did you think I was joking about a daily regimen of shoe leather mastication? Your gums were bleeding? Would you rather PISS it?! That’s what I thought.”
“Nowhere in these thousand odd pages will you find mention of a Skittles Harvest. Stop playing, I know you’re still alive, I can feel your breath. Anyway, you do this by having your partner consume a bag of skittles each day for an entire week. During this time they are not allowed to express their seminal fluids either manually or through nocturnal emission. Ah, there you are. Well, you must be vigilant, and your sleep schedules must be asynchronous. If you detect arousal in them during slumber, you lightly shank them with whatever stabbing apparatus you’ve set aside for the occasion. At the end of the week, you allow Daniel Plainview to drink your milkshake. Wait, this is perhaps a confusing metaphor. You’re Daniel Plainview. You. Drink. Their. Milkshake. Drink it all up. Does that clarify the issue? And here I can’t stop mimicking (very badly) Daniel Day-Lewis as he says: Draaaaaaaaaaainage. Anyway, you whip them until they’re running side ways and their eyes are nearly all sclera (i.e. frothing in a kind of crazed-horse-look) like their haploid cells are ready to stage a mutiny inside their respective reproductive platforms. Then, when they’re blasting assorted fruitiness into your laughing gear, you gargle the following, “I can taste the rainbow!”
“Finally, I sometimes fantasize about shooting someone with a crossbow directly between the shoulder blades after having bedded them. The scenarios vary, but a reoccurring dream involves some post coital humanoid running on a treadmill. I sneak up behind them while they’re listening to Huey Lewis and the News at full blast. Then, at the perfect moment, when they’re in middle of a magnificent stride, I release the bolt. When it hits, their limbs seize and pull inwards like a dead spider’s, they collapse onto the moving belt which launches them across the room into a pile of free weights. This is called the Ted Nugent. It is nowhere to be found in here.”