Douche Army by Brady Phillips
Book 5 in the "Douche" series by Phillips (Douche, My Douche Runneth Over, Douche National, Nearer My Douche To Thee). This installment sees our hero, Wyatt "Soul Broseph Number One" Dellinger, fight the system once more to make the world safe for bros, faded sunglasses, self-satisfied grins, and hats worn at angles best measured with an astrolabe.
Wyatt pouts, staring in dismay at the sign taped in an exciting and decidedly left coast way to the door of Hollister. It reads: "Sorry. Closed for repairs." Unmoving he calls to Hunter, his bro he's there with at the mall.
"Hunter! Come here, what's this mean?" Hunter puts his iPhone away in the most exaggerated and publically-viewable way possible and runs as fast as his special edition houndstooth-print Crocs can take him.
"Looks like it's closed, brah." The "brah" was heartfelt.
"NOOOOO!!!!!" Wyatt cries to the gods."We"ll see about that," he says to Hunter, punctuating the word "that" with a hard pop of his collar, "I'm calling my dad."
You Don't Own Me by Helen Wilnack
Winner of the 2007 Caldecott Award for Best Children's Book That Should Under No Circumstances Be Read To or By a Child.
It tells the story of Jizzly Adams, the lonely yet anatomically correct stuffed bear. From his humble beginnings as a stage prop in Captain Fart's Gratuitous and Unfunny Shitwagon Cursing Band to the lights of Broadway, Wilnack weaves the tale of Adams against the backdrop of the first Gulf War.
With an American publishing record of 17 richly detailed abortion scenes and overt references to Holocaust denial, Jizzly finds the relative security of Captain Fart's to be a far cry from his new life of witnessing forced body modification and the plight of troops returning home with Gulf War Syndrome.
Adams is part witness to history and the madness of war, and part cocaine-fueled monster who's troubled marriage to Drew Barrymore sends him into a spiral of depression which culminates in the most debasing act of ursine self-pleasure ever committed to paper.
This book should be required reading for anyone who says they've seen it all. They don't have nothin' on ol' Jizzly.
Memoirs of a Burnt-out Skank by Robin Dix
Robin Dix is the pen name of a former daytime soap star turned full-time life coach. In-between she claims to have bedded half of Hollywood and three-quarters of Della Reese.
Basically 240 pages of various sexual exploits masquerading as a "journey of self-discovery", the only discovery seems to be that the anus isn't nearly as fragile as it first appears.
Excerpt from the opening paragraph:
"Oh god," I say when I wake up "who's dick is it in my mouth now?" I try to say it, that is, but there's a dick in my mouth. All that comes out is "Oah ahw, awah wah awah wah ah" followed by a thin dribble of saliva. Oh I hope that was saliva.
I keep my eyes shut tight. Actually I don't have much of a choice as a heavy pair of balls are currently holding my eyelids closed fast. Wait a second...dick in mouth...balls on eyes...and who are they talking to? Oh fuck man, the siamese twins! Now I remember. "Great fucking party," I think to myself as I drift back to sleep.
The book also comes with a DVD called At Peace with Myself and the Homeless Couple Who Gave Me Syphilis, which is worth watching if only for the hilarious outtakes featuring a cockfight from 1984 between Alex Karras and a surprisingly agile Charles Kuralt.