I generally make it a point to finish every book I start, but I'm going to have to peace out early on this one. My dad gave it to me for my birthday, saying that he hadn't read it but a friend recommended it. I usually like the books he gives me (he has good taste and is far better read than I am), but I don't know what his friend was smoking.
It's a pretty egregious García Márquez (and Heller) rip-off, and an inept one at that. There are lots of passages about farts and periods, and Lindsay seems to be trying to be all literary and low-brow at the same time, but he tries so hard to be clever and funny and never succeeds at any of it. But boy is he trying. You almost want to cheer him on. You can do it! Keep at it! And that coy mix of literary narrative and dirty humor is the kind of thing where you can't succeed by degrees. You either hit the target perfectly or you miss, and if you miss it doesn't matter how close you were. After fifty pages it was just too painful to keep going.