Yesterday, I wrote about my new novella idea (tenatively titled Ridiculosity: A Lifetime of the Unabashedly Bizarre), in which I would create a completely false life for myself, and act as if I was writing an autobiography in the future. This is one of the chapters. Let me know what you think in the comments or in the chat box to the right.
Hey everyone! The first review of my new book is in! This is featured in the October 2008 issue of the magazine Tits, Cars, Vaginas, Guns, War, Bald Eagles, Shootin' Faggots and Fine Literature. Enjoy!
Reading Walters' new memoir about sex is almost as fun as having sex. But not quite. It's still good, though.
By Pinky Fishwater
When I first received famed writer Ty Walters' sophomore effort, How I Got That Loose-Lipped Bitch Betsy Rosenberg To Fuck Me Until I Was Raw: The Story About Fucking The Biggest Whore On The West Coast Until I Couldn't Walk, I was astounded at its size. Clocking in at 3,352 pages, 84 chapters, and weighing as much as a small child, my astonishment is understandable. But once I cracked the spine of this book and read the title of the introduction, I knew I had a winner sitting on my lap. Titled "I'm In This Shit For The Money, Bitches," the first chapter paints an autobiographical portrait of the author better than any that I've ever read. He explains that yes, he is in this shit for the money, and that he will spend all of the royalties from this book on crack cocaine and dirty prostitutes. Fans of his previous memoir, titled Cunts, Chodes, Cooters, and Cunnilingus: What's Up With Women's Crotches? will recognize his playful yet truthful tone. It warms my heart to see such a young up-and-coming writer be so brutally honest with his readers.
After this brief passage, the real story begins. Walters tells us that he was sitting on his bed in his apartment one Sunday, masturbating into a sock while thinking of Fran Drescher, when all of a sudden, an image of Betsy Rosenberg, the west coast's most infamous whore (and peanut butter spokeswoman), popped into his head. Bewildered, he immediately lost his erection and vowed to have sex with Betsy as some sort of psychotic form of revenge that apparently only makes sense to him. He finds her in less than three hours, after talking to a series of fourteen African-American crack dealers (ten of which had undoubtedly had sex with her in the previous week). He approaches her lying under a park bench in a children's park and makes his proposal, stating that she "needs to fuck him," otherwise he'll "shoot her in the fucking face with his fucking shotgun." She gladly accepts his offer, but on one condition: he must release a DVD of their sex romp (EDITOR'S NOTE: the deluxe edition of the book includes this DVD, with exclusive director commentary). He agrees, and they make their way back to his apartment, stopping at the store for a giant box of condoms, Funyuns, and anal lubricant.
Chapters 14 through 69 describe their fornication in classic Walters style, from his realistic description of the (likely cancerous) mole on Betsy's left ass cheek to the way sweat drips off of her fake-tanned love handles while she rides him cowgirl-style. My personal favorite moment is when during the foreplay segment, Walters likens Betsy's left nipple to a red Crunch Berry (chapter 23: "O Berry, Where Art Thou?"). It's beautiful and poetic. I won't ruin the juicy details of this sexual journey for you, but I would like to mention that I vomited four times while reading it. Yes, I was moved that much.
After their two-day fuckfest, Walters sleeps for 19 hours, waking up only to eat still-frozen waffles and urinate in his kitchen sink. After waking from this near-coma, he discovers that he has what looks like acne in the skin underneath his unkempt pubic hair. This leads into chapter 72, creatively titled "I Think That Whore Bitch Gave Me Fucking Herpes." He journeys to a free clinic for some tests, and they confirm that yes, he has herpes. While most people would think this sort of diagnosis would ruin someone's life, Walters makes the best of it by photocopying his testicles for 116 straight days, chronicling his first three and a half months with this disease. Each photocopy is represented in this book, printed in vibrant color on professional-grade photo paper, so no small detail is missed. This is where his experimental writing style truly shines. You really start to feel his pain by day 74, when he suffers through his thirteenth straight outbreak. But all is well by day 103, when he is boil-free and ready to be laid again. It is truly a great success story.
After finishing the epic tome that is How I Got That Loose-Lipped Bitch Betsy Rosenberg To Fuck Me Until I Was Raw: The Story About Fucking The Biggest Whore On The West Coast Until I Couldn't Walk, I read it again, in record time (67 hours!). This book deserves to be considered a classic, amongst Gone With The Wind and Moby Dick (mostly because it's so fucking long). From the heart-wrenching first chapter to the finely finished last page, Walters takes you on a ride you (and he) will never forget (but mostly him, because of the herpes). I highly recommend it.