a sancocho

[WolfLarsen]

from Pussy: a sancocho
by Wolf Larsen

Chapter 1,629,463: Your Wife Sitting on My Face in a Luscious 69, & Vice-Versa

Ka-baM! Ka-POW! WhoooOOoops! I'm driving alOng the highwaY. The sky jumpS out of my radiO! The radio is attaChed to my peniS! Clack–Clack–Clack! My penis is c l i m b i n g out of your head. That's why we're shooTing everything left & righT! Tat – tat – tat – tat – tat!

Boom – BOOM! Boom – BOOM! What's that? I'm traveling with about three space alienS, or maybe 15. Space aliens! Sometimes the space aliens EAT the musiC. Sometimes the music crEates orange treeS. The dead people are all racing past us at the SPEED of lighT. It's 1403 A.D. Really?

"Can you hear the voices writing endless stories in my head?" asks one of the clouds in the sky.
"IT SMELLS LIKE THE BEGINNING OF A NOVEL BUT WHOOPS THIS IS NOT A NOVEL!" sing all of the opera singers walking along the highway.
One of the modern dancers JUMPS in frOnt of the speeding automobile I'm drivinG. WHOOPS! The rain starts singing mEdievaL lOve soNgs. WHOOPS! The modern dancer that JUMPED in front of our speeding automobile is sOmebody we met in a previous lifetimE. And it's raining! Whoops - a - boom – BOOM!
Whoops - a - boom – BOOM!
(I decorate the last paragraph with Spanish columns & Arabic calligraphy. The next paragraph is made out of the reader's pussy juices...

A LAbYr-iNtH awakens inside your heaD. Awake! Awake! AWAKE! Somebody's straNge pussy POPS out of the labyrintH! Elevators! Elevators? The rain is speaking a STRANGE languagE. Da - da - da... Dee - dee - dee ... None of the space aliens in the speeding automobile underStand the language of the raiN, only the GIANT BRAIN located in the radio undeRstands the language of the raiN. BAM!

A prophet who's sitting on the roof of our speeding automobile yells out: "IT SMELLS LIKE SOMEBODY BECAME A DIFFERENT SPECIES AND THEN DECIDED TO WRITE THE HISTORY OF INSANITY ALL OVER THE PLANETS!"
BAM! The reader is lost aloNgside the highwaY. Modern danceRs are danciNg alongside the highwaY all arOund yoU. The modern dancers are daNcing above the sky & the oceaN. The opera singers are all singing a blues-Australian-aboRiginal-clasSical-IndiaN-musiC. The music grows Third World coUntries everywherE! BAM!
Hey reader! Welcome to the sancocho! Prepare to have your insides eaten out of your body as you breathe!

BAM! The reader walking alongside the highway is suddenly surrounded by a paSsing group of naked virgins of every color & nation & religion on the planeT. Bam! The reader falls to his KNEES and screams out, "PLEASE DON'T LET ME BE SWALLOWED BY THIS NOVEL! OH ****! IT'S NOT A NOVEL! IT'S A SANCOCHO!"
What's a sancocho?
Sancocho! Sancocho!! Sancocho!!!
Copyright 2011 by Wolf Larsen

[Jack of Hearts]

After thinking about it, this reader finally has a reply to all things Wolf Larsen.

Why these works are so detested by this reader has always been a jarring question. It cannot be because of their arbitrary vulgarity that seems to want to incite a certain reaction- this reader isn't offended in that way. It's also certainly not the case that he sees this as too radical, 'going against the grain we all like' sort of thing- because this reader has seen this and encouraged it. If it were just an unsubstantial, pretentious work it could be more eagerly ignored.

It seems to be a combination of the pretense and total failure of the piece that reminds this reader of the worst in himself. He strongly suspects he too is capable of producing these things (or something equivalent) if the stars were to line up just right. Every time he reads these works, he is forced to confront the worst elements of himself as an artist- the expended effort in the wrong direction, the total inefficacy, etc etc. And eventually the instinct is to tell the guy with the mirror to knock it off. But it's not a valid request, so here we squirm.

If that's what you were going for, well, this reader would have to say you've succeeded.






J

[hillwalker]

What's a sancocho? Indeed.

If I were to be honest I'd get reprimanded by the powers that be. Rearrange the following - Sh1t Crock Of - and you get some idea of how highly I regard the piece.

I actually despair of the effort you have put into this (all of 10 minutes surely) to produce something that reeks of pretentiousness and indeed makes us squirm as Jack says - not out of a feeling of discomfort at such puerile posturing but from embarrassment for the lone Wolf who believes he is leading us to a brave new world of literary radicalism when in fact he's merely sticking his ink-stained finger into his nether regions then asking us to smell the roses.

H