And where was I? Oh, right:
Hamantaschen is to sincerity what I am to a Christian lady who means well and thinks that she is standing up for the right to free speech when she says that she supports a millionaire who openly hates the gays and belittles African American history and who made his fortune tricking ducks who want to fuck - completely at opposites.
This is some of the most cynical writing that I have ever come across, but we haven't even scratched the surface of what Hamantaschen is capable of blundering. I can recall reading the first few stories, wanting so much for this writing to be better than it was, to the point that my brain refused to accept that what I was reading was something that was so amateur and bad that I believed for a while that I was just in the wrong mood to enjoy it. Mind you, if you put Harry Potter, or, since I mentioned him in the last review I left, Books of Blood in front of me, it would be the act of reading it that would put ME into a good mood.
Wonder
I COULD make a bad joke about how I could "wonder" about what the author was thinking when he thought that he had "finished" this story. I genuinely like the grotesque imagery a good deal in this story, but the bizarre - and cynical - narrative structure and the head-scratching choices for the "story"/background of what is being described in this short story left me feeling as though this was a mere shadow of what it could have been, if it had been in the hands of a more capable writer. The best way to describe this would be to imagine if Johnny the Homicidal Maniac was an even more petty and conniving torturer, deciding to ruin the future life of someone met in passing. I mean, at least it was short, and relatively free of grammatical errors, although much of it sounds "mushy" if you really read everything carefully. This is, truly, the closest story in this collection that seems reasonably close to a finished product.
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