What the hell is this! "Purgatorio"? How'd that get on my site, my wonderful site? Who's this "Helmut" dude, anyhow? I've been hacked?! Why, why would somebody do something like this. It doesn't make sense. It's insane! And he's, I don't know, it's like some sort of glitch. I can't get it off, can't erase it. I've tried to dump the whole thing and re-load it -- however the computer geeks say it -- but it's like burned into my computer or something. Man! OK, dude, I get my hands on you, you're dead! -- hear me? Dead! I'm doing a search on you right now! Some queen named "Helmut" who wrote some gay book called Purgatorium. Let's see ... Mae West died November of 1980 -- dude, you're, like, ancient -- so some faggy disco novel in the '70s. Let's see ... here's Purge and Void: living the death of IBS, by Helena Frod ... no, that's not it. Prick Up Your Ears, by Schmu Razowski ... sounds like something you'd write, Powder Puff. Ah! Here it is. Purgatorio, by Helmut Crisp. Right. OK, Bisquick, I'm closing in. Oh, will you look at this:
"Mr. Crisp's freshman effort embodies, zombie-like, the unspeakably, indeed, the unreadably worst of the already hideous Haute-frisson School, the dreck which now pollutes the remainder bins, bargain basements and flea markets of bouffanted suburbia. His style is a sort of Three Mile Island on the topography of contemporary fiction, managing somehow to produce prose at once fluorescently, psychedelicly purple, yet monochromatically dull. This reviewer is brought to say something he never dreamed possible: How I long for the by comparison subtle shadings of a Norman Mailer, as anodyne. Mr. Crisp, all of us so unfortunate to have plowed through your awful offal of a purgatorio, are left one level lower, infernio. The world is diminished because of you. May you rot in hell, forever."
Man, you are pathetic. Tell you what, loser -- just stay out of my way, and I'll forget it. You ain't worth it. I just better never hear from you again. Ever. Got that, Cupcake?