Sad Literature Sunday #3 – “The Little Ass-tronaut” by Admiral Fartmore & Beau Dashington

Gather round, kiddos – it’s Sunday again! And despite my previous three-week-break from this format in aid of my recovery from the last issue, I’m back again, to torment you and your literary passions and hopes and dreams with another piece of writing that probably would be better off not existing – The Little Ass-tronaut by Admiral Fartmore &Beau Dashington.

littleasstronautSo, before we di(v)e in headfirst, there’s also this dedication:

Dedicated to Buzz Aldrin for that time he punched Bart Sibrel in the face. Look it up.

What can I say, I did. And it actually did happen. And it was one of the most satisfying things I’ve seen in a while. I’ll leave you with this still from a youtube video appropriately titled Astronauts Gone Wild – and move on to the main part of the book. Man, we are off to a good start.

Pictured here: A close runner up to Buzz Aldrin’s Best Moments

Well, here I am, all alone on this rocket, heading to the moon for science reasons. The lift-off went well; all the girls and boys in Houston were jumping up and down and celebrating for me, since I was finally getting off this planet.

Wow, rude much? I wouldn’t be marveling about the fact people were this happy about my transorbital planet removal. Whatever. You do you.

Gotta keep Joe Taxpayer happy. The public wouldn’t support NASA if they knew we were just flying up here to fuck a bunch of monkeys like those dirty Russians do. But maybe those Russians are smarter than we are. Massive Russia won the cold war after all.

Why does every single piece of trash literature I ever pick up begin with trying to develop into a nuanced critique of US politics? Looking at you Chuck Tingle.

Ah jeez, why I am even talking into this Space Diary? I feel like a crazy man. Those NASA quacks told me I had to do it though, since they said that it would help keep me sane since I don’t have any monkeys to fuck



So what should I say? My name is Astronaut Bruce Tasking.

Speak no more. Make it work, Bruce, make it work…

I was born to be a spaceman, and I definitely got that desire from my daddy. He was a plumber and he died in a plumbing accident when I was real young. My last memory of him was a night he was working late, and he let me tag along with him. We sat outside and ate some sandwiches, and he pointed to the moon and said, “See son, that’s the moon. Its attached to the earth by gravity, which is kind of like the love that attaches me to you.”

Okay, firstly – plumbing accident? I’m intrigued. Somebody write a spin-off please. Secondly? You tried really hard. I’ll give that to you. You got something goin’ there!

It always seemed like the moon was the sky’s asshole, and that it was just begging for a good porking. A good old fashioned Montana meat BBQ, right in the shiny white asshole of the sky. Gosh, I’d just spend hours staring at it. I guess you could say I was a bit of a luna-tic.

Yes Bruce, yes, indeed. What the fuck?


And when those desk pushers at NASA offered me the first ever solo moon mission, I jumped at the chance like a crawfish jumping for gravy at a hoedown.

I’m digging the well-thought out comparisons here.

Everyone knows that there’s no gravity in space. What they don’t know is that there’s no gravity in your dreams, either. You always feel suspended in the air, like when your mommy strings you up to a tree because you spilled gravy on the sheets during Mommy-son-alone-time.

I take that back – I’m definitely not digging the comparisons.

I listen to the song “Rocket Man” by Elton John almost once an hour. It helps pass the time. That may sound cheesy – a hot astronaut listening to “Rocket Man” while he flies toward the moon – but hey, the 6 moon is made of cheese. I think my daddy would be proud of me. He loved cheese. Sometimes I like to think that he’s up there on the moon, mouth full of the moon man’s homemade cheddar, smiling down at me.

Daddy issues are being taken to whole new, transorbital level here.

Most people know that you can’t hear in space. The silence is cold and deafening, like when your mommy locks you in the freezer because you talked out of turn. Except that out here, the freezer goes on forever, and there’s no frozen peas to snack on.

I’m actually terrified by the comparisons by now.

The thought of landing on the moon sends shivers down my spine. Thinking back, it feels like I’ve spent my whole life gazing up and watching its cycle: the full moon, the new moon, the half moon, the croissant moon – I loved every shape it made. The croissant moon was maybe my favourite, not just because it was my daddy’s favourite baked good, but because I was a bit of a history nut and loved the fertile croissant where civilization first started. From the fertile croissant to the croissant moon: it was amazing how far we’d come as a Pisces .

Okay say what you want, buts this is actually amazing. Also, I’m in need of a croissant now. Don’t judge me.

I looked around and tried to understand what was going on and who had me in their arms, and I realized it was the moon itself. It was spooning me from behind, breathing into my ear as it started to take off my space-suit and rub my groin. I felt something pressing into my back. It was very large and rock hard, just like a big moon rock.

I’m out. I’m so out, you have no idea. Literally none.


You know what’s the most terrifying thing? This piece of uniquely trashy literature even has a very decent writing style. It’s… readable. I don’t want to. No. Please. Momma no.
If you want to embark on that adventure by yourself, please do so here, and let me know if you survived.

We tried to write the dumbest piece of shit we possibly could. It’s short – like, Amazon erotica-style short – but we feel still that it captures well the experience of an astronaut on a mission to buttfuck the moon.

Congratulations Admiral Fartmore and Beau Dashington, you did well.

For today, that’s all, Space Cowboys. We’re good.

Like #SadLitSunday? Cool, I’m not even going to try and promise there will be a new one each Sunday, but I’m keeping my options open. Have a really shitty book you want to suggest? Awesome, let me know!

Sad Literature Sunday #2 –”Slammed In The Butt By Domald Tromp’s Attempt To Avoid Accusations Of Plagiarism By Removing All Facts Or Concrete Plans From His Republican National Convention Speech” by Chuck Tingle

Fuck me backwards, what a title. How am I even supposed to fit that into a tweet when I later desperately try to get people to read this stuff? Bad marketing strategies, Lux. Baaaad ones.
Okay, whatever. Without further ado, I’m gonna jump right into our second Sad Literature Sunday, where I dedicate one or two precious hours of my life to present you the literary abysses of online publishing. In case you missed it, you can find the first issue right here and catch up on all the fun you missed so far (bring booze, seriously).

Today’s pick is “Slammed In The Butt By Domald Tromp’s Attempt To Avoid Accusations Of Plagiarism By Removing All Facts Or Concrete Plans From His Republican National Convention Speech” by the same guy who brought you “Pounded By The Pound: Turned Gay By The Socioeconomic Implications Of Britain Leaving The European Union”, namely Chuck Tingle. I still want to believe so hard I’m about to dive into a nuanced critique of US politics, but my fire of hope is slowly dying.
Come, children, come, suffer with me.

When I tell my friends this, they say that I’m putting too much pressure on myself, that it really doesn’t matter because Domald Tromp could say anything and the conservative would still be swooning over him in droves.

Well, that critique might not be especially nuanced, but it is a critique, so…

I’m going to be honest; if I could write for one of the other candidates, I would. Unfortunately, this is the job I have (…).

You and me both, you and me both, sweetheart.

It’s the end of the first night and we are anxiously awaiting the on stage arrival of Domald’s First Lady, Morlinda Tromp.

You know, if you say this sentence out loud with a straight face it will sound like you are trying to speak with an oven potato shoved in your mouth. I highly encourage you to try it.

Morlinda is screaming now, her eyes wild with patriotic enthusiasm. “The Democrats have spent so much time trying to figure out if they could, they never stopped to think about if they should! Thank you!”

What an oddly sexual description of a potential First Lady giving a speech (she insisted to write herself).

“Oh my god,” I say aloud, suddenly realizing where I’ve heard all of these words before. “Oh my fucking god.” (…) “That was just Bein Balcom’s speech from the movie Jurassic Mark!” I exclaim. “You know, when they’re having dinner and they’ve learned about the dinosaurs that Mark hired for his new theme park?”


This shit is getting nuanced, I’m impressed.
Okay guys, this is where I skip back to the jacket text.

Now it’s up to hotshot speechwriter Perper Tunk to craft a perfect speech for Domald Tromp… with a slight catch. In order to avoid any accusations of plagiarism, Domald has requested that all facts, concrete plans or rational logic be removed from the statement, leaving only a haze of vaguely patriotic fluff

Sounds like any other Trouuuhmp speech, if I may say so.

The speech is a success, but when a physically manifested version of the political rhetoric ends up at Perper’s hotel room, he’s faced with the consequences of what it means to create something that looks beautiful on the outside but is completely vacant within. All of this culminates in a hardcore gay encounter between a man and his intentionally vague, fear mongering speech.



I have no words.

What the actual fuck.


This exists. It exists. Someone sat down and thought he should write 4000 pages about hardcore gay encounters with questionable presidential nominees. I’ll let you know as soon as I have decided whether this shit is utterly horrifying or deeply impressing.

If you are brave enough, feel free to continue along the adventures with Chuck Tingle.

As for me, I don’t think I can ever be mentally stable enough to do that.


Like #SadLitSunday? Cool, I’m not even going to try and promise there will be a new one each Sunday, but I’m keeping my options open. Have a really shitty book you want to suggest? Awesome, let me know!

Sad Literature Sunday #1 – The Erect Oak

It’s one of these days, guys. It’s Sunday, rain is splattering against my windows, I have a nice cup of tea steamin’ next to me, and at least one of my cats had the decency to pretend some affection and is now sleeping in my lap (Cheers, Feli).
One of these serene days – so I’ll just have to give in & traumatize a soul or two.

Let me jump back in time a year or two or three – my best friend B sent me a link to a tumblr which deals exclusively with bad literature. I stayed and read and when I resurfaced at least a couple colours were drained from my life. B had created a lingering trauma for both of us that day; now certain keywords suffice to send us both squirming and moaning.

Now, today, I have the pleasure to introduce you to all that lies beyond prose and the aesthetic of words – buckle up gents, it’s gonna be a wild ride!

Our first exhibit this week will be an erotica novel of the different kind. Don’t get me wrong, different can be good – refreshing even! – or absolutely traumatizing. So, let me introduce you to, ehem, “The Erect Oak” by Julissa Redone.

To You, Dear Reader, May you question your life choices as I have questioned mine.

Already am. Thanks for that, Redone.

Bernadine Lestrad considered herself an Earth Mother, a flower child. She loved the feel of fresh dirt under her feet, the way the wind tickled the hair on her toes and the absolute certainty that she was at one with nature. In fact, she hardly ever wore shoes. She wasn’t particularly fond of baths either, so Humankind kept its distance.

Hooo boy, here we go.


Therefore it wasn’t hard to imagine that she would talk to trees. She whispered secrets into sap and leaves, she sobbed into bushes, and easily developed an unnatural affinity for foliage. Bernadine no longer simply caressed leaves, she fingered fronds and licked stamens, all the while wishing with all her heart that they would stroke her back.

I really wish I could tell you how much I regret doing this by now. I am also kind of disappointed at the lacking second alliteration after “fingering fronds”. You had a chance and you blew it, Redone!

These ministrations escalated over time, until, on one of her travails, she stumbled upon an exceedingly masculine looking oak tree in an open clearing.

Let that sink in for a moment right here. When’s the last time you walked up to a tree and thought, “By golly! What handsome, masculine fellow?”. Also, ‘travails’ – really, Redone?

Oooh, aren’t you a delight?” She moaned to herself, trailing her fingers down its trunk, lecherously. “My, you feel so good.

I sure hope her tetanus shots are up to date and all. I am not even going to get started on ‘lecherously’.

She pawed its rough bark, until she palmed a hardened nub. “Mmm, is this all for me?” She purred, rubbing herself against its wide, welcoming base.

Oh god, here we go.


“Oops! Nearly forgot: I have to put on my lipstick. This is a special occasion, isn’t it?” She said to the tree, who seemed to stare back at her, slightly annoyed. “Don’t be that way, my love, I won’t be but a moment.”

Therapy, Bernadine, you need therapy. You really do.

“Bernadine,” The leaves seemed to whisper, “Do you think that lipstick is really your color?”

No Bernadine, it is not. It is absolutely not and you should not have wasted tree’s time wanting to be pretty and shit. Fuck you, Bernadine. Also, dayum son, tree’s passive aggressiveness is right through the roof!

Bernadine pouted. “I hoped you were different.”
The tree cradled her in the crook of its limbs, its broad, manly trunk enveloping her in a protective way.
“I’m a talking tree. How much different do you want?”


(I’m going to spare you all the middle parts because what the ever living fuck.)

Bernadine orgasmed furiously with her last dying breath.


I’ll just leave you with this. I’ll leave you questioning your life choices and those of Bernadine. Be good, young soul, be good.



Like #SadLitSunday? Cool, I’m not even going to try and promise there will be a new one each Sunday, but I’m keeping my options open. Have a really shitty book you want to suggest? Awesome, let me know!