Deep beneath the Australian desert lies a sex research institute so secret that it doesn’t even exist. Dusty banks of computers have ground away for decades to produce the optimal Dirty Book; its content so far out that it could not possibly be generated by human hands, brains, or genitals. Filthier than Henry Miller, funnier than Georges Bataille, and not nearly as boring as anything by the Marquis de Sade (except the De Sade bit), this book will arouse much more than your curiosity as it gleefully smashes the ultimate taboo of erotic literature– coherence.