This Review is by Hakeem (I Cannot Believe)

I cannot believe this quality is the best of quality. I swear to God this book is crazy. Hella crazy! I love crazy stuff and this is like…hella crazy, guy. Prince—I don’t even know how to pronounce the last name. When I think of this book, I think of colors fighting each other—like almost a war of color. See, I am no philosopher, or a life-teacher. My name is Hakeem and I come to the American Dream. People say are you, Hakeem, the dream? I say no. Many people have Hakeem as a name. I no want to give you my life story because it is a sad journey into utter craziness. My life was bad crazy and this book is good crazy. I appreciate crazy in various forms. So, this book is awesome. I…I like the guy and he’s a good guy and the book is crazy, but the book is good. I cannot believe the quality of this book. I cannot believe the quality of the man behind the book. I don’t know what the hell the book is saying. The pictures are crazy, too. This guy is cra—everything is crazy! I cannot believe my man wrote such a crazy book. I cannot believe. I cannot believe. I cannot believe. 

(unknown accent)

The Profound Hater (A Most Vile, and Hateful Review)

Just read it, hated it. I've known this gentile-man for a few odd years. He deemed himself a writer and acted accordingly. I think he enjoyed the idea of being a writer and the seclusion writing afforded him (I don't think he can afford to be a writer? Whatever that means!) And he brings this junk to the world after all that bellyaching. He told me he was cookin' up something good. Yuck!  This is irrelevant tripe. I told him to write about his goddamn life. Why deal with the fictitious when the truth of your sad upbringing is more profound?  He writes like this to escape the truth. Trying to manipulate us with this gross sentimentalism. With truth, he just needs to transfer and it is much easier. I am disappointed in you Tessie Boy! I know you don't like to be called Tessie, but I expected something else. 

I don't want go on a rant! Ugh! He is a flawed man! Happyland that is my momma's bossom! About the story, it is rather basic and riddled with cheap word-play. I think the wordplay gives the reader a world of head-hurt. The illustrations are too steampunk for me. He is a punk full of steam. I throw wordplay back at you. See, I don't like the man and that sullies the reading experience. I loathe the person. Why? You don't need to know that. My hate knows no bounds; so, it cannot be out-of-bounds. 

Happyland is made to seem profound, but it is basic, just like the person that wrote it.  I just hate everything. I hate this story. I hate the person that wrote the story. I hate the computer he used to type up this story. I hate the mechanical pencil he used to write up his drafts. I hate the name of the characters. I hate the cup of coffee he drank from because it kept him up to write this story. I hate it wholly. I hate everything—except hating.

Heinrich Hamburglar

It appears man was doomed from the outset. I picked up this book on a cold, rainy, drizzly day. You can almost see…God was urinating on this day; it wasn’t profound. I…uh…I found this book by the garbage, where it belongs. This, this inexplicable—inexplicable anti-Semitism will be a downfall for all of us Super-Jews. He fears the evolution of the Super-Jew—this Tes-fah-fah-fah-fah-fuck-out-of-here-Mekonnen. It is very—it’s an unpronounceable name. By the bye, my name is Heinrich Hamburglar and I’m from the—from the Weimar. I…this—this—this anti-Semitism—zzzzz…uhhh…this Hebraic Hater—why must a man utilize the name such as Adolfo Dumfries? And we know the only Adolfo that ever existed is Adolf Hitler and then there is this Brutals—Brutus Goebbels Beaujolais…which…evokes a Joseph Goebbels. The propagandist—the—the—the—the man that took Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche’s word and turned them into a sort of—a sort of…a pamphlet for the…the—the Nazis. So, I’ve not read the whole book—I’ve skimmed it and I’ve realized there is a deep anti-Semitism. Yes. You may ask why has my accent faltered. But it—it appears that I am an Abyssinian who—who—who converted to the beautiful Judaism. Yes, I converted to this Judaism. See…he brews this hate-juice for the Hebrew—this man, yes, this—this Tes-fah-fah-fah-I-don’t-know-the-name of this guy. But I don’t know whether this book is for the children, or for the adult, or the man-child…per se. I don’t know. I have yet to read the book all the way through. So, this book, I know nothing of its gut, but a few dumplings here and there—and those dumplings are this anti-Semitism, that I sense. And why must they hate us? We are chosen for a reason. No, no? I’ve gone to Mount Sinai and prayed for Moses that one day he’ll go to the promise land. I know not about the transgression, but I believe in the God that did not allow him to the promise land; that transgression must’ve been substantial. And…uh…I know I am going off the rails… because…I am that kind of guy. I’ve been diagnosed a schizophrenic lunatic by the madhouse nurse. 




HAPPYLAND: A Fairy Tale in Two Parts

No Label/Publisher; 2013 


3.1415926535897932384626433832795028841971693993751058209749445923078164062862089986280348253421170679 (Pi Up to 100) *

8.5 BEST NEW MUSIC (Unpublished Fiction)

"The Kanye West of fairy tale!" 

[Last Review: Dopin’ Ain’t Hopin’ by Lil’ god, a trap-EDM album]

Can a book make you believe in God? No, but this book has one more o which makes it good. Hence the fictitious pie score of 3.1forever. In this book's possession is an airy timelessness. 

    Strait [sic'] out of his Mother'sland, 'it’s a crazy motherfucking refugee from Sudan who came to America with a tattered black suit and a dream.' And here he is now writing some literary fiction oozing with mojo drizzled with Sriracha and caked in sugar. This little book is overwhelmed with a spicy sweetness. Prior to tackling this book filled with gilded sovereigns, let us examine the man and then separate the man from the work of fiction. He is a man and that is the sum of him. We usually critic music, but the musicality of this book warranted a review. His words are the music and they talk like a songbird. This book is music and it just happens to be in book form. Cosmically orgasmic in the free-flowing siren-like lyricism—this is the quintessential ivory tower of song. Read it aloud and you too will have a golden voice because these words were scribed with a golden pen.

    Musicality official, we ruminate. It is a novella fraught with overwhelming, unbridled thug passion. Man, this is a philosophical gangster who disowns philosophy, but creates it at the same damn time. He is the Kanye West of fairy tales and he dropped out of college twice (that is like College Dropout: Double Album Edition). A cappella literature, or litter-true. This is truest shit he ever wrote because it is the only thing he wrote so far. Once again. this is a philosophical gangster. He hides big philosophical problems within a fairy tale. He is a prophet that only poses good questions. He doesn't know the answers and he let's you know he doesn't. The book ends at the gates of Happyland. He doesn't care if it exists. I am not God, so what?

    This book contains an allegorical intensity. Allegory, to myself, is vague in meaning, but it is a story that has some meaning or a revelatory truth. Prince Gobbledygook has just tried self-murdering himself (gauzed wrist) and he is trapped in some sort of colorful purgatory. Every character is a reflection of Prince Gobbledygook. He has lost his name and his appellation is Prince Gobbledygook. I initially thought of Prince Idiot (Fyodor Dostoevsky), but I canceled that thought and I didn’t understand the arising of that little thought. Existentialism entered my mind with the inclusion of that knock-knock joke (Who? Absurd cow, Albert Camus). Gobbledygook leads to nonsense and the logical fallacy became an absurd world. There is a great deal of absurdism. Lily Marshmallow represents life (“Lily Marshmallow is the embodiment of life, but she is lifeless.”) —his life. This is the world of Billy Lavender, formerly Prince Gobbledygook. She begins with death breathing heavily. Underneath the willow tree, she is ominous, sad figure. Her samovar looks like an urn—mentioned later as, 'urns are sad samovars,' by the pig.

    He commences on this...pilgrim's progression. He first must define happiness and a sly pig directs him to Cornelius Wordbook (an Englishman with a book-head). And he wants to quit after he realizes there is no definition. Part II is a less weightier and is more funner. Chapter 6 captures the writer's life in stunning, hilarious fashion.

    You read this story for the wordplay and the colorful imagery and the rather fresh illustrations. He doesn't cover new ground, but utilizes old ground in a fresher way. Saunter on this holy world of his. The only concern is it lacks a specific demographic, but that is no worry to people that enjoy a work and not a box to place the work in. 

Yours Truly, 

Piggie Piggington 


Tom Waits meets a bag of mushrooms in a crown royal bag...

Tom Waits meets a bag of mushrooms in a crown royal bag meets a peanut butter and jelly pizza meets a bulldog with a wooden leg. Concentrated type of beautiful-crazy makes this book a ride on a fiery rickshaw. It is quick-paced with a ton of information. Before you can enjoy something—another something arises. At the fertile heart of this story is a straightforward fairy tale: a boy meets a girl and they skip to a happy ending. But everything is done backwards and all is subverted. What is he building here? He marries her on the 1st meeting—he proposes with an ellipsis—he doesn’t even know her name—he reads it off her dog tag. It is just so god-darn zany and capriciously delicious. I even like when the illustrations don’t correlate with the book—slight infidelity with the text. In Chapter 3 Cornelius Wordbook is an English gentleman with a book-for-a-head and he ends up (in the illustrations) get his head offed via a guillotine, but that part isn’t mentioned in the book. May it be Prince Gobbledygook feels that way. And the vagueness of the penultimate illustration of Chapter 3 makes for different interpretations. Is a headless Cornelius Wordbook delivering his bookhead to the library? Is Prince Gobbledygook Cornelius Wordbook? Is that Prince Gobledygook? I think all these characters are reflections of the same person and we are in some sort of weird place where he is everybody. I think therefore I am reflecting too much on this. All just absolutely weird and it all somehow works. The illustrations mostly adhere to the story—that was the only differentiation (Chapter 3). The words are great and the illustrations are great—together they make for greater fiction. 

Gloryforus Mindfockery

This book is like smoking weed out of a fluorescent/elaborate crack pipe. It has the charm of a flamboyant crackhead with a chicken-feathered fedora and a metallic lectern. I think the prince has a cracked egg head and that is eggistentially grand, man. Billy Lavender smells great and Lily Marshmallow tastes good. I want to know more about these weird folksy folk. There is some sublime mind-fockery. It is but one step from the redonkulous to the sublime and he made some delicious limeade. All these characters are fun and I just appreciate what is being said. You read with your ears...Leopold James said that. I love reading this out-loud to my nieces and nephew. She loves the pig and his juice. I highly recommend this book to everybody. 


A Beautiful Failure

Exceptional, beautiful failure of magnificent proportions is the essence of this little book. With a magical magnification, there is an uneasy amount of too muchness. Not much is done, but a ton of words are being used and said. He really appreciates how things are said and he lacks a sort of conciseness. This story is heavy, but could be made thinner. Crop half the weight, or words and you will still get this simple story across. He prattles on and on for the sake of wordiness, wordsiness. A la Bobby Dylan, he can jerk me off, but he canst jerk me leg. There is bounty of words and it grows into a gargantuan clusterfuck. An artist shouldn't be too attached to clever lines—they can be the downfall of the story. Then again, this is no literary heavyweight. He is just spouting zany words and intruding his story with zanier characters. 

A Prolific Instagrammar

In the Land of Head-Nod and the generational transition from love being a four-letter word to a three-letter word (luv), these illustrations are right up the alley cat’s arse. In my uber-busy life, I don’t have time to read—with the exception of tweets—tweetle-me-that. These illustrations are steampunkish and righteously weird. Reading is superfluous—the illustrations tell the story of Happyland with vivacity. There are 32 illustrations and a picture is worth a thousand words. I’ve read an exorbitant amount: 32,000 words. Sheesh! 32 grand is a bloated novella. I am from where we don’t just judge books by the cover, but by the illustrated guts and the back of the book. As a young’n’ in elementary, I would smell the back of the book and read the blurb. And the blurb would become my summary, but with slight changes. I write the review before I read the book, but reading the illustrations is kind of like reading the whole of the book. Reading the book will be mere formality, but I want to extinguish these thoughts from my mind and my opinion needs to be heard. It starts with a saddened girl ‘neath a hairy tree and ends with a picnic. They must’ve made it to Happyland. And his name must be Billy and her name is Lily. I see the little sugar cubes on the plate. See…I read the illustrations and dissect the tableau. hashtag, I like smoking hash when I play tag


Ad Hominem

Distinguishing between the artist and work.
I know the worker and don't believe in the artist. He is a mealy-mouthed good-for-nothing artist. I respect his fiction, but the man is cracked. I know him and he is a shady person. He only says hi when he wants to say goodbye. He only speaks to you to speak of his work cause ultimately that is all that matters. There is a distinct separation with me. I loathe the artist, but love his work and retain a holistic ambivalence. I know nothing bout him. He evades questions that are personal and that is his personality. He changed numbers frequently and leaves when he wants. I don't think he has a friend. We were friends and this is not destructive criticism of the work, but the mannish child. He was a friend of mine. I love his work of fiction and it is utterly imaginative and the illustrations are merely an extension of his words. He once mentioned his failure as a writer is why he incorporated an illustrator. He felt his words didn't fully convey his story. His story can stand on its own, but the illustrations develop or visualize his interpretation of his work as he explained it to his illustrator. 
The names are pretty and the story is prettier. There is an aestheticism that is charming.  It is a simple story that is made seamless. The goal of art is to conceal art is what somebody said. Don't allow the inner-workings to reveal themselves on the page. It just feels like every word was meant to be there. It congealed and works together as a whole. The ending is vague and poses a question. He gave away his ticket to Happyland for the sake of Leopold's happiness. He gave his other ticket to Lily. It ends with a question. Is Lily real or is she a reflection of him. Lily is life. If she is life, he needs her to enter into Happyland. What is the point of happiness if you are dead? 
Love the work, dislike the person. 

A Hodgepodge of Colorful Garbage

I've never read something so ostentatious and baroquely disgusting. This work is absolutely cluttered and fraught with too much wordplay. I dig playfulness and experimentation, but cot damn. This is a colossal mind-fracking. I had the intention of buying this book for my child, but the illustrations are frightening and it is too dense for kids and too child-like for adults. This is not my cup of tea because I don't like putting a whole strip of LSD in my tea. Perhaps, I am not cool enough to understand what is going on here. Coincidentally, my name is Mister Jones. I am a straight-laced person and enjoy reading something that isn't out-all-the-way-over-there. For now, I dislike this book intensely. Thank goodness I read this before passing it along to my twin sons, Bright & Early. 

An Amazon Prime Reviewer

Meatpie without the meat is this little story—absolute pseudo-profundity. It feels detached and interested only in the way it plays with words. He could’ve delved deeper and completed something with concrete answers (for the children). Is this book for children? Or adults that wear skinny jeans? We don’t know any of the characters (except superficially). Experimental stories of this sort tend to be flawed because they are too impressed by their own experimentations and he is deeply impressed by Himself. A writer is God because he creates out of nothing? But this ain't no God. He is too derivative. He succeeds in some clever lines. I think the illustrations are more interesting than the story. The story is too convoluted and fraught with word-playing. I really dig the names. But the story is merely a platform for this illustrious illustrator. He juts life into this story and where the word fails, the illustrator carries his experiment-of-a-world. 
-An Amazon Prime Customer 


Mr. Somebody (Where are all the philosophical gangsters?)

"A Japanese beatle fixed into my heart and eating it all up—this is a sad, saddening story. Sentimentalism is the manipulating of emotions—emphasis on the mental—Mr. Mekonnen has tried his best at manipulating. He captures a feeling and at the cusp lets it go. Where does this feeling go? What does it mean to be at the gates of Heaven (Happyland) and forego your entrance to assuage your past? Lily Marshmallow embodies Life and the symbolism of Life. Prince Gobbledygook is nonsensical now and he eventually abdicates from that absurd throne and names himself, or remembers his name: Billy Lavender. Prince Hobo, Leopold Balthazar I & I, represents the past, which is always dueling with the oppressive present. Adolfo Dumfries is representative of the future. He donates his ticket to Leopold Balthazar (who we find to be aptly named Enoch Solomon) and ensures happiness lies in his past. Herein the ending becomes something much sadder. What is the point of entering heaven if you are not alive, or almoist alife? I don’t much understand what is going on and stick to the sweeter part of the allegory…happiness is the one you’re with. He is with Lily Marshmallow and that love story shall sate me. But the other side of the allegory is for the philosophical gangsters who know that hell is to wait while heaven is just…over there." 
-Mr. Somebody