Hello Darkness! The Official Blog of Helen Keller

Folks,

Unfortunately, due to things occurring in the real world, I'm going to have to stick a delay on the Annual Poster Awards of the Year Awards. There's no reason to worry, I imagine they'll only be a week or so late. Believe it or not, I've already started doing some of the writing, at least in sketch form.

Here's a peep for you:

"DUMMY MATT OF THE YEAR AWARD"

<Pick a failed retard like Lily, say something funny.>

BAM! I'm mostly done; as a reward, I'm watching some Law and fucking Order.

Seriously though, here's an honest sneak peak (which now won't appear in the awards; way to go you pack of meat-hungry wolves.)

SHITTIEST BOOK I COULD THINK OF AWARD

Love You Forever by Robert Munsch

Firstly, if Robertson Davies can be well-received for raping the feathers off of The Little Red Hen, I can do the same to another bullshit classic.

Secondly, in Munsch's own words, the stupid song which permeates the book is a song he composed to his own two stillborn children. That alone should be cause to realize this is going to be a sick adventure, but Munsch doesn't disappoint.

Initially, we're treated to the song as some sort of mantra for a woman who successfully squeezed a kid out of her vagina. The haunting phrase "I love you forever, I'll like you always, as long as I'm living, my baby you'll be" starts immediately.

Now, Robert Munsch certainly overdraws at the sentimental bank. If this is the overly saccharine refined prose he writes, I'm hooking a bottler up to his ass 'cuz he must shit pure sugar. I could wipe out the nationalized sugar industries of many a Caribbean nation with one good shrimp vindaloo dump from Munsch. Honest to Fuck, the pages of this book drip with so much dogshit sweetness you could kill a diabetic dead three pages in.

But that's not the worst part! No no! This book is actually a chronicle of the fantasy liveborn child of Munsch who gradually ages throughout the book so one can tell that the dumbass mother really meant what she farted on page 1. We have to live the written glucose lives of these two up until the mother herself is an old crone dependent upon her whipped son.

The sickest part of this horror show is when the son rips a fucking page right out of Oedipus and rocks his mother in his arms like SHE'S the baby! Holy Fucking Shit! I should repeat that to let the true horror sink in: The sickest part of this horror show is when the son rips a fucking page right out of Oedipus and rocks his mother in his arms like SHE'S the baby!

I was expecting the next page to be the son stripping naked and hopping in the casket with his dead mother to be with her forever, but instead, we see the son passing off his Norman Bates' fueled insanity to his own child to continue the madness!

How on earth this book is supposed to be inspiring is beyond me. Why adults feel the need to drop cash on this brick to pass off to other adults is beyond me. There are much better, and mentally more sanitized, ways to tell an expectant parent that no matter what your child does in like, you'll always love him/her. Telling prospective parents that they can expect to be date-raped by their children will have them cooking their nuts in the microwave or grinding their ovaries into the carpet with their heel on the spot.

This book is a horrible book and Robert Munsch should have his own special circle in hell for writing it. Well, that admittedly is a little harsh. Maybe he should just have to live in Orillia until he dies or something.