By Alfred Butterman
Alfred Butterman Publishing, 178 pages
Reviewed by Sally Putterman
The world of self publishing hit a new low with the release of Al Butterman’s science fiction novel, The Mucus Stain. Possibly the most disgusting book ever written, the story begins when a mysterious stranger deposits a glob of spit into a toilet and flushes his DNA into the sewer where it combines with some radioactive waste--it seems a newly built nuclear power plant has been diverting its own waste product into the sewer--and somehow--it is never properly explained--the spit merges with the waste and evolves into to what will henceforth be known as--and these are the author’s words, I’m not making this up--the Doo Doo Monster. I told you it was disgusting.
Even more disgusting, in this reviewer’s opinion, is when the the author allows his personal politics to warp this already very warped narrative. The Doo Doo Monster, it seems, seeks revenge on those who would oppose nuclear power and thereby deprive the world of beings such as itself. The author conveniently ignores the fact that the power plant was illegally disposing of its waste, and merely following the law would also deprive the world of his beloved Doo Doo Monster.
To its credit, the Doo Doo Monster never actually kills anyone. For the most part, it just runs around, tracking down liberals and throwing doo doo at them. Many a scene that might otherwise have ended with the walls covered in blood instead ends with them covered in feces. Did I mention the book is disgusting?
It also makes no sense. At one point the Doo Doo Monster teams up with a Coal monster, called Coal Blooded, and the Marlboro Man to trash a windmill farm for some reason that is never properly explained. There is also an extended scene in which they pelt a planned parenthood building with doo doo balls. Again, no reason for the action is ever given.
Ostensibly the Doo Doo Monster’s main desire is to find his true father, the mysterious stranger who deposited his spit in the toilet, thus transmitting his DNA to his freakish son. In the end, the monster locates his father, who turns out to be none other than Al Butterman a part time blogger (a job given absurdly important stature in the book), and author of the very book we’ve been reading all along. It’s the kind of stupid postmodern twist that should have gone out of style in the nineteen sixties and a way for Mr. Butterman to explore his own misguided God complex. The truth is, this glob of spit was better left in the toilet.
Sally Putterman writes fake book reviews for the Daily Brass.
More Posts by Sally Putterman:
Review: Foxes and Chickens, An Allegory, Review: A Bug Story, Review: Blood Bites Review: This Land is My Land
Posts by Al Butterman