Sometimes I think that I am the most original author ever and that no one has ever written anything so strange and lovely as I have.

But then someone buys me a book like this:

and  I realize I am lame.

I read The Sad Tales of the Brothers Grossbart a while ago and I loved it. It has a lot in common with those books that shift perspectives and locations too frequently for you to get attached to any of the subjects. Only instead of being alienated from the characters for this reason, you are alienated from the characters because they were horrible.

Each story, each adventure, each perspective, is more interesting and intriguing than the last. The book is a huge scenic masterpiece, with all the richness and flavor of the medieval era and all of the filthy humor of Monty Python’s Holy Grail. I appreciated it as someone who read the majority of “The Ecclesiastical History of the English People” for light reading in middle school, and also someone who likes Bizarro Fiction and vulgar sex scenes.

The book is disgusting. I highly recommend it.

I had severe doubts about Jesse Bullington’s ability to replicate the powerful weirdness of Brothers Grossbart, all of which he most definitely assuaged in the first four chapters of The Enterprise of Death.

In the following chapters, he has broken my soul and made me realize that I am lame. And also that I might benefit from subtle titles. And also that necrophilic child pornography can be arousing.

Thanks, Jesse Bullington, for bringing foulness and verbosity back into style.