The book by Paris Portingale’s bed is titled Art and the Drug Addict’s Dog, by…wait…Paris Portingale…and it is being reviewed by…Paris Portingale…#uhoh


Art and the Drug Addict’s Dog

Paris Portingale

I was reading a book the other day. It was a book I’d written as a matter of fact, and if you’re interested in the title and author, it was Art and the Drug Addict’s Dog and was written by me, Paris Portingale, writer and general piss-about.

Now, there are a few things I’d like to say about this particular book, and having written it myself, I feel I’m in a better position than most – particularly the vast section of the population who’ve never heard of the thing and wouldn’t recognise it if it jumped up and started slapping them around the head.

Firstly there’s far too much punctuation. I don’t mind the odd full stop and maybe a comma here or there, but the thing’s totally awash with the stuff. To put it bluntly, it’s a hopelessly cluttered mess of dots and squiggles with the occasional word thrown in as an afterthought. “Fucked beyond any form of redemption,” as my father would say about anything he considered not up to scratch, usually with regard to me because as far as my father was concerned I was a “fucking disappointment and a waste of good semen,” which quite frankly hurt and I’m sure was a precursor to a lot of the problems I have today – the cocaine abuse and all the fucking hundreds of thousands of dollars I’ve had to spend on clinics and psychiatrists. And don’t get me started on fucking psychiatrists for Christ’s sake, who I can tell you are nothing more than a pack of blood-sucking leeches preying on the poor bastards of the world whose fathers have fucked them up to the point where their lives are nothing more than a roller-coaster of uppers and downers and fucking shit that’s going to end up rotting out their nostrils and probably lead to cancer, fucking cunt!

But back to the issue of excessive punctuation. Point in question – I remember on page 47 there was a semi colon and the thing stood out like a pair of dog’s balls and was totally unnecessary to the progress and flow of the narrative. To be honest, I think I only included it as a wank to show people I knew the stupid fucking things existed. Same with the backslash on page 65, just a gratuitous lair off.

Second cab off the rank, there are too many words, the vast majority of which I feel are quite unnecessary and generally irritating. Whole passages of blather that go on and on endlessly and wear you down to the point of tears. Sure, there are some interesting bits but you’ve got to wade through so much crap you’re exhausted by the time you get to them and the whole effect is lost. At one point I myself fell asleep, or possibly into a coma, it was hard to tell.

Third point – too much sex. I’ve had people tell me there wasn’t enough sex, but they were clearly slavering perverts and degenerates of the worst kind and I would take their considerations under the most cynical of advisements. No, for me bonking is a personal and private affair and to have people going at it like rabid rabbits, page after page in the most explicit detail is too much. Far too much by half in my opinion.

Now, I’m not saying you shouldn’t buy the book (if you’ve forgotten, the book is Art and the Drug Addict’s Dog by Paris Portingale, namely me) please do, it’d look great on your bookshelf or coffee table, and the colourful cover would brighten any room. All I’m saying is, if you do buy it you’d be best advised not to read the thing because quite honestly, the chances of the experience leading to frustration, disappointment, depression and a spiral into alcohol and drug abuse are certainly better than casino odds.


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