FICTION ADVOCATE HAS POSTED Dan Pribble’s review of Nicholson Baker’s “House of Holes,” in which Baker challenges Ludacris as the modern world’s preeminent laureate of getting freaky.
Neither the book nor the review seem like they would be safe for reading out loud at work.
Presented with no explanation and no guile, the House is not one structure but a multi-themed adult amusement park consisting of mountains, forests, bodies of water and many, many attractions dedicated to the unbridled and broadly envisioned pursuit of sexual pleasure. We are made privy to the existence of Masturboats, pussy-boarding, penis trees, pornsucker ships flown by pussypilots arranged in pornsucker squadrons, and cross-crotchal interplasmic transfers, which are more or less exactly what they sound like. Guests can visit the Hall of Penises, the Garden of Wholesome Delightful Fuckers, Groanrooms, the Porndecahedron or the headless bedrooms (not as bad as they sound). “Cock” and “pussy,” already in heavy rotation, understandably give way to more outlandish monikers such as Lincoln Stiffins, spunk pipe, manjig and Malcolm Gladwell; or else bitchgroove, twizzled riddler, lettuce patch and fuckfountain.