Motherfuckers: The Auschwitz Of Oz
David Britton
Language: English
Pages: 158
ISBN: 2:00156935
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
The Citizen Kane of bad taste. There's so much evil energy in this book, if it moved next door to you you'd probably get cancer within a week! In the long-awaited sequel to David Britton's first novel, Lord Horror (and Savoy's contender for the 1996 Booker Prize for Fiction) the great horror of modern history is absorbed into the framework of Surrealism, literary fantasy and the darkest children's fiction.
By viewing the Holocaust as a tragicomic carnival of the grotesque, the author offers the reader a vivid, dream-level identification with the era of efficient barbarism.
Nazi Germany: History in an Hour
The Third Reich Sourcebook (Weimar and Now: German Cultural Criticism)
Salvaged Pages: Young Writers' Diaries of the Holocaust
Being nominated ‘Business Person of the Year’. Barclays, Midland and NatWest had seconded him. The local federation of bra manufacturers tried to buy his image for their range of foundation garments. North West Arts elected to nominate him for an award, but subsequent committee meetings failed to agree under which category he was entitled to receive one. Before their expected bankruptcy, Factory Records proposed an album deal... and £50,000-worth of cocaine. The Hacienda nightclub started ‘Meng.
Continued a few moments later. Spades were hollerin’ in the clouds. “Every fucking week there’s some fresh catastrophe overwhelming our dark brothers in the lost continents. They’re either killing each other or they’ve fucked that much they’ve run out of food. British charities are always out with the begging bowls and there’s appeals on TV and in the shit rags for more aid workers to go over there and help out. Why don’t all those concerned niggers over here volunteer some help? No fucking.
Meng was mumbling, “that fucking stoat’s going to die of syphilis.” “Stoats don’t die of syphilis anymore,” Ecker informed him. “They fucking do when they give it to me,” growled Meng, peering at his burning member. Slipping into a diaphanous pink negligée (given to him by Jayne Mansfield after a night’s servicingi) and applying iosis lip gloss brighter than the purpling rose of Dachau, Meng set off for further conquests, algolagnia written large on his features, lagneia sparking his ape body,.
Hymie the Kebab, dropping stuff to the left and right, riding Mycobacterium leprae as best he fucking could, slipped gracefully under the black waters. Recalcitrant Jews with the gaunt phthisic look of the tubercular drank from steins overflowing with ‘King’s Evil’ (bringing on the power of Wreck-A-Pum-Pum). Two nuns with Treponema ballidum, sucking Kendal Black Drops, blessed the gathered Animalculae and Spirochaete. Mystical high magic, low magic, hoodoo, orisha, santerta and obeyah stung.
Entia non sunt multiplicanda.” William Joyce held his cards in a loose fan. He folded two from the pack and left them, face-up, on the chrome table. “The Hanging Moon in juxtaposition with The Horse and Cantle.” In Lord Haw-Haw’s voice there was a trace of brogue; it melted from him, soft and melodious. As if depositing an article of profound value, Horror placed a boned hand on the table, casually leafing three cards into the gloom. In the custom of the game, Horror spoke their names. “The.