Friday, July 20, 2012

Review: The Oiliest Secret

The Oiliest Secret
By Christamar Varicella
Greasy Bottom Press in conjunction with the Daily Brass
31 pages so far
Reviewed by Sally Putterman

The world of self-publishing reached a new low recently when Christamar Varicella (if that is his real name, and it isn’t) self-published his so-called romance novel parody, The Oiliest Secret.  Mr. Chickenpox, as I call him, no doubt provided himself with a great deal of amusement with his latest venture, but I, for one, am not amused.  I am not amused at all.  Do you see me laughing?  Of course you don’t.  You can’t.  And you won’t.  And you’ll continue to not see me laugh until I get my hands on the Comics section of the Sunday paper and I can feast my eyes on The Family Circus and put this dreaded disease of a man and his pathetic fake novel behind me forever.  Also, I hate him.  There.  I said it.  

To understand my loathing, go no further than the character Jenna Strumpet, a harlot sinking to the utmost depths of depravity and idiocy.  Jenna, it seems, falls into deep lust with whomever crosses her path, instantly shedding whatever emotional attachments preceded her latest conquest.  Over the course of the novel, she sullies a towel boy, an old man in a rocking chair, a deranged hermit, the postmaster general of the United States, a bus, and Alec Baldwin’s guest house.  Meanwhile, for some inane reason, a series of nitwits succumb to her charms and follow her to the ends of the earth in an ever-growing band of stalkers.  Each chapter ends with the tantalizing promise of something oily happening, but when something oily does happen, it is always revealed that the real oily secret is yet to come.  It's very frustrating.

But you know what's even more frustrating?  None of the characters have sex!  Why does Mr. Chickenpox think I'm reading this thing?  I mean I'm obviously reading this for the plot, and characters, and ... Oh who am I kidding?  Where's the sex?  And is there really a secret?  If so, does it really involve oil somehow?  What kind of oil?

I got so angry and disgusted, and dare I say a little oiled up, that I slid out of my chair and ran over to my computer to type up this angry tirade of a review.  Granted, I've only read three out of the first six chapters, but something super oily better happen soon or I'm liable to read something else.  I heard that Dinosaur Ghost was pretty good.

Sally Putterman is chief book reviewer for the Daily Brass and the author of the books, The Supreme Bean, and Tree Bark: A History.
More reviews:

Dinosaur Ghost

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