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Date: 2018/09/11 20:56 By: bulldust Status: Admin  
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The Bull is thrilled. For once the big-ass storm is careening elsewhere than directly at his bovine rear, and he doesn’t have to run around plywooding his windows and hiding in safe rooms. This time it’s the other guy who is getting slammed. Maybe it’s wrong to think this way. Maybe the Bull should embrace a more sympathetic view of his fellow creatures’ wellbeing.

Screw that! It’s every mammal for itself. Learn to freaking swim or surf. Or be prepared to be buried in toxic sludge and pig manure. Yes, it is a thing. Check the news on that one.

And speaking of being buried, we have the latest capital delivered by the floor, “Do You Hear the Coffin Bell?”

The Bull is now taking a deep breath, trying to temper his response to this latest “gift” from the floor.

The cap is, well, not to the Bull’s taste. It is, in fact, something that he would cross three highways and take two planes to avoid. It is the kind of faux historical fluff that makes the Bullmeister want to drink to excess and watch Die Hard twenty-seven times to cleanse his brain.

No sir, he did not like it.

A kitten died in the cap to try to sell the plot. A kitten. What did that fictional kitten ever do to the VC?

But seriously, the cap was as fluffy as the dead kitten. There was no substance. Mary was not a convincing, sympathetic character. She wasn’t even a good character to hate. She left no impact on my emotional state whatsoever. I’d rather have read the chronicling of the decaying kitten corpse than about stupid-ass Mary. Screw Mary.

And also screw Percy Bysshe Shelley NOT SHELLY. If you’re going to quote a lame-ass, poser poet, use the correct spelling, unless this was Percy Shelley's less well-known neighbor that often gets his mail by accident. The use of Shelley’s poetry just pissed me off. It felt like filler, pretentious, faux, English Romantic-laden, fluff-plot, crapital filler.

Plus, there was no surprise in the surprise ending. From the first page, it was evident that some foul play was at hand, and it was most likely Mary’s doing.

I will probably burn in hell for this, and no bell will ring to save me. But I hated this cap.

I tried. I wanted to find the positive aspects of this cap and be encouraging, but I failed.

Yeah, I’m having trouble not being the prick that I am in this review, but sometimes you need to let your ass-flag wave free. To me, this is a clear no. It held no charm for me. It lacked everything I love in fiction, mainly a plot.

Maybe someone else will love it. Maybe someone with a she-shed and a cup of tea. Certainly not the likes of me.

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Date: 2018/09/12 15:00 By: rockefeller Status: Visitor  
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Way back when Rocky was an orderly at Sunnyside Home, the nurses sent an old lady to the funeral home, who sent her back. Oopsies. Color them red. Goof-ups like this are why coffin bells were a real thing, and why he's getting cremated.

Whew! The Bullmeister really gored that puppy... or kitten... or whatever. And, to be sure, it wasn't to Rockmanehough's tastes either.

Technically it wasn't awful. Like if all whatever floorite sent this up read was maybe a paragraph or three, then Rockon can see how it might've passed muster. There's some decent description, as in, "His coffee-toned hair," and later, "her auburn hair." It's good to know what color a character's hair is. Makes Rocks wonder how Asians manage to infuse their fiction with strong character development. And not just once, but twice are Kitty's "china-blue eyes" mentioned, leading Rocks to wonder if perhaps she has other sets of other colors and, again, just how the heck Asians bring their fictional characters to life.

Only minor editorial quibbles:

as if he was a penny dropped into a well.
"was" s.b. were (conditional tense)

Either I could lay in my bed...
lie (unless you are a chicken)

And no one knew this better than me.
I (considering this is formal English)

without thinking from whose table she snatched from.
too many "from"s


The murderous bitch of an MC was easy to dislike right from the get-go: melodramatic, weepy, judgmental, angry. So Rockslide knew as soon as her two-timing sleazeball philandering creep of a swordsman husband's death was described that she'd poisoned him. Though, to be fair, he was a little surprised to learn that she'd also poisoned her kitten (possibly the only other thing she'd ever loved) way back when for scratching her.

Too bad about the coffin bell. Maybe she should've cut the string or chain or whatever it was attached to, just to be sure that if her pseudo-deceased hubby woke up after his internment, funeral and burial, etc., he couldn't ring for help.

Were forensics really that bad back then? Like, here's this otherwise healthy (and not even actually dead) dude all covered in his own puke, probably clutching his throat, and this hysterical shrew of a wife... Monk would've sussed it out.

Anyway, no. There might well be a market for this. To hate something so well penned is sometimes indicative of literary greatness. Truly bad writing inspires only apathy to mild ambivalence. So this could just be a matter of dimwitted Rocks' and his cow-plowing colleague's tastes and biases regarding style and genre. But still, no.
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Date: 2018/09/12 17:56 By: bulldust Status: Admin  
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Perhaps, I may have been a bit too me in my commentary. My apologies to the VC for my crass, crude and undignified commentary.

(But still, hell no.)
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