I fear, after taking the time to read this piece of stereotypical toilet humour tropes, I must offer my own far from positive review...
It seems that you write in order to shock, offend, insult, transgress, push boundaries, break taboos, offer up the grotesque on an equally grotesque plate. I assume you think this is creative, imaginative, bold, daring, innovative? A frenetic pace, a mashing together of ugly words and ideas, a wrecking ball to that tyrannical establishment you so long to annihilate? Yet, the content is childish. The style pedestrian. You seem to desperately crave avoidance of the pedantic, but in this desperation you spin yourself full circle into just another form of pedantry. The pedantry of the overly obscene.
Being grotesque isn't new. And it can be ****ing beautiful. I suggest you read the aesthetic ugliness of Bataille, or the fetishistic symphonies of certain sections of Pynchon; maybe the pubic hair sniffing, navel obsessed prose of Nádas; the beautiful obscenities of Burroughs; the wonderfully poetic and brilliantly bizarre, shameless filth of a defecatory Beckett; the endless toilet humour turned profound by Rabelais or Sterne. In so doing you might discover that simply being grotesque isn't enough. Mashing obscenities together and crafting (if one may call this a craft) an ugliness with no other elements provides for a banality the world does not need. Be multi-dimensional. Be free of this idiomatic dogma you have created for yourself. It does you no favours. It's terribly boring.
Your writing comes across as all for show. Words without ideas. Where's the substance? I want to be forced to engage with a novel - and if it's of the grotesque sort - to do battle with it, be provoked by it, be alternately shocked and stunned. I want you to give me moments of unashamed beauty beside the obscene to heighten both extremes. I want not just your frenetic ramblings alone, I want them to inspire thoughts that run rampant through my head; I want to ponder meanings, ideas, philosophies.
Unfortunately the only feeling this work elicits is apathy. The only idea is banality. Currently it's on a one way street to nowhere, to a realm of boredom masquerading as ferocity, and I'm afraid, once there, it shall not escape.