Hard to say what I was expecting here, but to begin with, when the subtitle promises you that the Angry Samoan in question will be "confessing," you find yourself looking forward to some snotty punk rock reminiscences. That occurs once, in the thinly disguised tour recollection "The Sheep Eaters," which lasts a mere twelve pages, with names changed "to protect the innocent" (more likely, to protect Turner from lawsuits and nasty telephone calls). The rest is comprised by true gross-out yarns culled from his time in Los Angeles and Santa Fe, many of which feel like Angry Samoans songs come to life. Some of these are fairly funny, like the poet cum cult leader whose charges demand him to "rate" words on a hilariously arbitrary ten-point system, or the "Deliverance" refugee who comes to exterminate "varmints" in Greg's rodent-infested house. The nauseating cautionary tale starring a rogue tapeworm is in a class by itself. Yet some of this is pretty weak tea, like sequence in which Turner mishears "black ice" for "black guys" (a dunderheaded pun on par with "updawg" jokes), and while I know Turner reveres Roky Erickson, playing his hero's schizophrenia for laffs seems pretty...mean-spirited. It's easy to get away with stuff like this in a thirty second punk ripper, but when you provide enough detail to turn a grotesque caricature into a real-life lost soul, it's another, and that happens far too often here. Though I have to admit, cajoling your psychiatrist and a former student to testify to your veracity in a pair of tongue-in-cheek appendices is a nice touch.