Weird/Terrible Books - Post the most obscure, odd, and terrible written works you've even seen

Randall Fragg

Chuck's Buck n' Suck
Global Moderator
True & Honest Fan
Ever find a really weird book? Like, Post-Apocalyptic Flower Dicked Mutants weird? Share it here, in a repository for sharing weird and terrible works of literature that you stumble upon.
Let me share something a friend uncovered, Santa Claus Conquers the Homophobes. (NSFW cover)
"I wish I could hope to ever attain one-thousandth the perversity of Robert Devereaux's toenail clippings." -Poppy Z. Brite Santa Claus is back. And flying beside him is Wendy, his freshly minted stepdaughter, who can peer into the future of selected children and offer them glimpses of the wonders ahead. But with that power come horrific visions of the turmoil and trouble the less fortunate among them are fated to suffer. Can Wendy and her stepfather prevent the suicide of Jamie Stratton in his teen years, as he grows up gay in a homophobic household and community? God the Father grants them three Thanksgiving visits to Jamie's tormentors, in hopes of bringing about a change of heart in them and eliminating their ingrained prejudices. Beyond the challenge of rescuing one precious child lies the far more daunting task of expunging entirely this brand of bigotry from the human race, as Santa and Wendy strive to remake the world in compassion and generosity. Along the way, they enlist the aid of the Easter Bunny, a highly persuasive fellow indeed. But the Tooth Fairy and her loathsome imps are hell-bent on doing all they can to stop Santa and Wendy-nay, to heighten mortal fear and hatred of anyone whose orientation strays even the slightest from the norm.
Fuck if I know what the author, Robert Devereaux (of course he's a fucking frenchie) was on when he was making this. The sad thing is, this dude has like 10 novels, and his own shitty website.
And, of course, has jumped on the Trump Derangement Train in a fashion which is, at least, creative.

Amazon Page
Uh-oh! God the Father’s done wigged out. Santa’s just reported that the entire tone and texture of Earth has darkened, in the USA especially, on his Christmas rounds this year.

It seems a would-be tyrant is gearing up to tyrannize. America’s democratic republic teeters on its last legs, this mockery of a man having rent its fabric, perhaps irreparably, in the weeks since his highly suspect election.

Checks and balances? Out the window. Sexists, racists, anti-Semites, science deniers, homophobes, fake Christians, and bigots of every stripe feel emboldened to publicly trot out the cockroach natures they’ve hitherto hidden.

When the sanity God and Saint Nick wait for refuses to materialize, it’s up to them to visit this godforsaken fucker moments after his super-weird inauguration and, in the infinite space afforded them by magic time, repair his wounded psyche.

Although it’s a psyche as warped and mangled as any God Almighty has ever seen, he has a plan. He has several plans. But one by one, they fall through.

Holy Hannah! Will God and Saint Nick succeed in threading their way through this perverse morass of Trumpian motherfuckery? Or are they . . . well, you know . . . DOOMED TO FAIL?

Hold onto your hats, boys and girls. You’re in for a wild ride!

Post any weird shit you find. Note, it should be actual books, not fan fiction/comics/whatever. It can be vanity published, but it needs to actually be published.

A childhood friend that turned terrorist in an Islamic militant splinter faction of Amway. Richard Nixon's commentary on his favorite Dokken album. A reality Tv show about competitive grave robbing. A movie review of Little Fockers, exploring the film's Bsdm-inspired pedophilia themes and parody of the Ben Hur chariot race, filmed with small breed dogs around a set designed like a 1970s Times Square filled with heroin addicts and pornographers. Such scenarios and more are depicted in Fistful of Pizza, ten short stories and tales of woe by Jon Konrath, author of Rumored to Exist. This metafictional collection of surrealist fiction is compiled from Konrath's long-running web site, The Wrath of Kon, and includes "If People Can Eat Blood Pudding, I Can Say I'm a Writer on My Tax Return", "With Sleep, All Things are Possible", "My Friend, The Jihadist", "My Brother Died in a Clown Car Accident, You Douchebag", and five other pieces of gonzo fiction written from a grim and twisted point of view.


We Have A Winner!
Remember when zombies were huge? Well, I read World War Z and loved it, so I wanted to read his other book, The Zombie Survival Guide. I was around, I dunno, no more than 13 at the time, so I didn’t have money. I asked my dad for it, and he got us it on Kindle. Or rather, what he thought was the right book.
It was not the right book.
It was about the most insane, retarded parody of the actual book I have ever seen. It goes on to talk about how to capture and fuck a zombie, how to become king of the wasteland, how big the authors dick is, just insane shit. I thought it was hilarious, but Dad was mortified that he bought the wrong book for his two young kids and that it was so vulgar and all that.

Randall Fragg

Chuck's Buck n' Suck
Global Moderator
True & Honest Fan


True & Honest Fan
Mmm, if I can find it again in my school's library, there's this one book from the early 1900s (if I remember correctly) which is basically one really long incoherent rant.
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Exigent Circumcisions

A dog's rights activist; a lover; a friend.
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Tactical Autism Response Division
True & Honest Fan
The Interface Series.
I'm seriously pondering just reposting it all piece by piece in its own thread. Y'all have never read more disturbing shit. It's a very dark scifi narrative built by one guy making random shitposts in completely unrelated subreddits over a span of months. The author is an insane alcoholic with serious chops. Down The Rabbit Hole has an episode on the guy.

Title: "Dubai Incidents"

5th Post / Date 04-21-2016 at 18:20:20 EDT

Dubai probably has the highest rate of free-floating non-interface incidents of any major metropolitan area in the world.

In one incident, a large group of migrant workers was segmented in an underground facility.

Perfect cross-sectional segmentation along the frontal plane.

You could see their lungs working, food being digested, blood pumping on the inside of the heart, everything.

They live for almost 5 months in this condition.

Absolutely fascinating to see in person.

There was also a group of school children who were very slightly segmented, just ends of fingers and bits of the calves and such.

Hardly fatal wounds, yet they all died within 2 months.

Some showed signs of intellectual mutation.

There are no known flesh interfaces in Dubai.

However, it is surmised that the architecture is actually based on interface geometry and carries some latent interface-like power.

Mass segmentations remain one of the most mysterious aspects of the interfaces. They seem to show that the interfaces do indeed concentrate on flesh, living up to their name.


Inflatable Julay

Bing bing wahoo
My Sweet Audrina by V.C. Andrews is simutaneously the best and worst book I've ever read.

To sum it up, it's about a girl named Audrina who is apparently 9-ish years old, who had an older sister (also named Audrina) who was raped and murdered. The younger Audrina is forced by her father to sit in the older Audrina's rocking chair for a few hours every day because somehow she is able to channel the first Audrina's memories and her dad wants her to become a copy of the first Audrina. There are no clocks in the house, calendars are missing pages, she doesn't know when her birthday is, etc. Also her memory is really fuzzy (spoiler alert because her family is drugging her) At some point she gets a retarded sister who is constantly shitting herself and her mother dies in childbirth. Her father then falls in love with her mother's sister. Speaking of her mother's sister, Audrina lives with her cousin/step-sister Vera who seduces a 25 year old piano teacher (who later kills himself) and gets impregnated by him. Vera ends up having a miscarriage on a priceless Oriental rug (the miscarriage is essentially depicted as the baby pretty much just falling out of her) which causes her mother to yell at her so Vera throws chunks of the miscarriage at her. Vera's mother somehow falls down the stairs and dies. Eventually Audrina's father falls in love with an amputee ballerina woman who rolls around on a cart and has a son named Arden who was present during the rape of the first Audrina. Audrina and Arden get married and Audrina can't have sex unless it is on top of the grave of her dead sister because of reasons. One day Audrina's retarded sister decides to roll around on the amputee's cart and manages to knock her down the stairs and kill her. The police apparently do not have any problem with the fact that two women have died in a short amount of time in the exact same way in this house. Vera begins to seduce Arden and finally pushes Audrina down the stairs, putting her in a coma. While she's in the coma, Vera and Arden fuck each other basically on top of Audrina and Vera plans to disconnect the life support. Audrina wakes up and manages to get her retarded sister to help her escape the hospital. Finally (SPOILER ALERT HOLY SHIT) Audrina realizes that the reason why she is able to experience the memories of her older sister who has the same name as her is BECAUSE SHE HAD NO OLDER SISTER AND SHE WAS THE ONE WHO WAS RAPED OH MY GOD and her family was keeping her prisoner in the house in order to shield her from this memory (but also making her remember her past because reasons) and Arden witnessed the whole thing and ran away (making the rape his fault and his fault entirely) and Vera was actually her half sister because her father and her aunt had an affair. Audrina and Arden make up and move out of the house and that's where the book ends. I rate it five stars
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Commander X
I came across the works of Lionel Fanthorpe some time ago. To quote from the Sci-Fi Encyclopedia

From 1954 to 1965 Fanthorpe was an sf writer of remarkable productivity, towards the end of that period producing novels on a weekly schedule for Badger Books, an imprint of John Spencer and Co, work-for-hire for which he was paid £22.50 per 45,000-word volume, dictating his tales into a battery of tape-recorders for transcription by members of his family or by friends. The rushed endings of many of his novels were a result of this practice, as he often did not know how close he was to his allotted word-length until batches of typing had been completed; if a tale had reached its length while still in mid-plot, it would be truncated forthwith; other passages, composed when he was running short and comprising reiterated narrative and sentence fragments, sound (when read aloud) like a particularly dire form of oral poetry. It has been claimed of Fanthorpe that for the years in which he wrote, chiefly 1958 to 1965, he was the world's most prolific writer in the genre.
And from the "Pel Torro" website:

To meet his grueling deadlines, Fanthorpe employed an unusual technique. He dictated his masterworks into a reel to reel tape recorder, oftentimes under the cover of a blanket to enhance his concentration. He would then ship those tapes off to a pool of typists for transcription. This created many unique problems. People who die in one chapter reappear a chapter or two later because it was forgotten that they were dead. Odd phrases turn up in the middle of paragraphs due to a misunderstanding by the transcriptionist. With a little work, you can usually puzzle out what was actually said on the tape vs. what the transcriptionist heard. To add to these problems, the word count specification for the novels was very precise. When a phone call came from the transcription pool saying that he only had three pages left to go in the book, desperate deus ex machina devices had to be employed to save our heros in the last few pages left to them. And saving our heroes was important; good always triumphs in a Fanthorpe story!
He wrote about a bajillion books under various pseudonyms: Leo Brett, Robert Lionel Fanhope, Mel Jay, Marston Johns, Victor La Salle, Oben Lerteth, Robert Lionel, Elton T. Neef(e), Phil Nobel, Peter O'Flinn, Peter O'Flynn, John Raymond, Rene Rolant, Deutero Spartacus, and Trebor Thorpe, to name a few. I was first introduced to his work when I came across a copy of Galaxy 666 written under the nym of Pel Torro and it is the science fiction literature equivalent of Plan 9 From Outer Space . I found a very used copy of this reprint edition from Tower Books, featuring a motion-blurred model of the Starship Enterprise painted blue, with some extra junk glued on, plummeting past lumpy papier mache meteors.

Some astronauts have to take a spaceship to a planet known as, for whatever reason, "Galaxy 666." They go there and weird stuff happens. They see monsters. They somehow manage to escape the inescapable planet in a poorly explained way. That's it.

It's how it is written though, there's the key, the Fanthorpe magic.

Co-ordinates 1,9,7,5,4,862/003,' called Ischklah.
'9071 3/4. O24 co-ordinates CBJ, para co-ordinate 198, 002,' called Bronet.
'Hyper co-ordinate 10467,' said Korzaak. 'Ultra-co-ordinate 194/312/564/8179,' said Ischklah.
'Infra-co-ordinate,' began Bronet. '987.56 reference co-ordinate 1325.'
'Alpha reading high.' said Ischklah.
'Beta scale medium.' called Bronet.
'Gamma steady,' said Korzaak.
'Aleph pointer, zero. Beth pointer, zero.'
'Gimel pointer minus 2,' cut in Korzaak.
Oski was tickling his toy computer with the desperate fury of an accordionist trying to make himself heard at a space veterans concert, competing with three electro-tapes and a hi-fi color organ. He was scratching away at the computer as though it were a part of his own body that was particularly sensitive and had been invaded by fleas.
There was a particularly virulent flea on an odd little world round one of the less significant planets in Galaxy 297. It was known as a matchi. Ischklah looked at Oski for a second and grinned.
'You're scratching that computer as if it were covered with matchis,' he said.
'Ugh,' said Oski. 'Have you ever gotten tangled up with those brutes?'
'No thanks,' said Ischklah. 'But I knew an old space veteran once who did! He's still got the twitch!'
'They're hellish things,' said Bronet. His face clouded over momentarily. 'Hellish things.' he repeated. 'By the seven green moons, I'd rather take on an Altarian gasha beast than get mixed up with those little devils. There's nothing much you can do when the matchis are on the warpath. What they lack in size they more than make up for in ferocity, persistence and numerical superiority."
'O.K. I'm ready for the next set of figures,' said Oski.

'This crazy galaxy is the price that the universe pays for order. 666, eh? By the seven green moons, it was well numbered! There's something strangely capricious about this place. Just as our universe is a motivated universe, this one is motiveless. The real universe, the universe to which we belong, has purpose; this one is whimsical, fanciful and fantastic. This is a temperamental galaxy, an hysterical galaxy, a mad galaxy. This is an insane, freakish, wanton, erratic, inconsistent galaxy; it's a completely unreasonable galaxy. It's undisciplined, refractory, uncertain and unpredictable. It's a volatile galaxy, a mercurial galaxy. [...] It's a frivolous galaxy; it's inconsistent and inconstant; it's variable; it's unstable; it's irresponsible and unreliable.'
The things were odd, weird, grotesque. There was something horribly uncustomary and unwonted about them. They were completely unfamiliar. Their appearance was outlandish and extraordinary. here was something quite phenomenal about them. They were supernormal; they were unparalleled; they were unexampled. The shape of the aliens was singular in every sense. They were curious, odd, queer, peculiar and fantastic, and yet when every adjective had been used on them, when every preternatural epithet had been applied to their aberrant and freakish appearance, when everything that could be said about such eccentric, exceptional, anomalous creatures had been said, they still remained indescribable in any concrete terms.
This site has more quotes from his other work, including complete stories.

Pain and discomfort seemed to mean nothing to them. Vengeance was their anaesthetic. Revenge was their analgesic.
“I'm am idiot,” he said. “I am the primaeval ancestor of all idiots. I am an arch-crud. I am the nig-nog of all the nig-nogs. I am the ultimate splurge!”
Then there was Paul Whiteland, as different from Jansen as chalk from cheese. Which of them you preferred depended on which type of character you preferred—chalk or cheese. They are both useful in their own way. You can't write on a blackboard with a lump of Cheddar. You can't satisfy your appetite with three sticks of coloured Writing apparatus.
Dover Cross, he reckoned, looked capable, but he was no longer in the first flush of youth and that was putting it mildly. It was a euphemism.
“Why have the archers stopped? Are they tired? I had forgotten flesh and blood tires easily. It is long since I was mere flesh and blood. I am Daedalus the flying god, I am Daedalus servent of the Phoenix! Part of the Phoenix!”
...“I am a man, and I am a bird!” he screamed to the few survivors who still ran desperately for cover. “I am Daedalus the man-bird - and I am a bird of ill-omen!”
After all the natural perils that he had already overcome, the mountains circumnavigated, here was something new. Here was Terror with a capital “T”; Fear with a capital “F”; Horror with a capital “H”.
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Autumnal Equinox

White Noise by Don DeLillo. Had to read that in college. Book was one of the most pretentious, up it's own ass, fart huffing pieces of drivel I've read. Postmodern literature in general irritates me.

A more mainstream novel I hated was The Lovely Bones. It was written so maudlin and over the top, and the metaphors made me crack up. I busted a gut and couldn't finish after reading the line "she ordered coffee and toast and buttered it with her tears."

Questionable Ceviche

True & Honest Fan
I'm suprised nobody has mentioned the Gor novels yet. They're so bad they become objects of art. It's an erotic science fiction adventure series that gets more and more insane as the series goes on. Thirfy-five books have been published so far, and the author is still writing. It's most infamous for the weird sexual culture of slavery, rape, and BDSM in every single book. Later books got so far up their own ass with half-baked philosophy and slave rape that his publisher dropped him. Here's a good parody:


The spider plant cringed as its owner brought forth the watering can. "I am a spider plant!" it cried indignantly. "How dare you water me before my time! Guards!" it called. "Guards!"
Borin, its owner, placed the watering can on the table and looked at it. "You will be watered," he said.
"You do not dare to water me!" laughed the plant.
"You will be watered," said Borin.
"Do not water me!" wept the plant.
"You will be watered," said Borin.
I watched this exchange. Truly, I believed the plant would be watered. It was plant, and on Gor it had no rights. Perhaps on Earth, in its permissive society, which distorts the true roles of all beings, which forces both plant and waterer to go unh appy and constrained, which forbids the fulfillment of owner and houseplant, such might not happen. Perhaps there, it would not be watered. But it was on Gor now, and would undoubtedly feel its true place, that of houseplant. It was plant. It would be watered at will. Such is the way with plants.
Borin picked up the watering can, and muchly watered the plant. The plant cried out. "No, Master! Do not water me!" The master continued to water the plant. "Please, Master," begged the plant, "do not water me!" The master continued to water the plant. It was plant. It could be watered at will.
The plant sobbed muchly as Borin laid down the watering can. It was not pleased. Too, it was wet. But this did not matter. It was plant.
"You have been well watered," said Borin.
"Yes," said the plant, "I have been well watered." Of course, it could be watered by its master at will.
"I have watered you well," said Borin.
"Yes, master," said the plant. "You have watered your plant well. I am plant, and as such I should be watered by my master."
The cactus plant next to the spider plant shuddered. It attempted to cover its small form with its small arms and small needles. "I am plant," it said wonderingly. "I am of Earth, but for the first time, I feel myself truly plantlike. On Earth, I w as able to control my watering. I often scorned those who would water me. But they were weak, and did not see my scorn for what it was, the weak attempt of a small plant to protect itself. Not one of the weak Earth waterers would dare to water a plant if it did not wish it. But on Gor," it shuddered, "on Gor it is different. Here, those who wish to water will water their plants as they wish. But strangely, I feel myself most plantlike when I am at the mercy of a strong Gorean master, who may water m e as he pleases."
"I will now water you," said Borin, the cactus's Gorean master.
The cactus did not resist being watered. Perhaps it was realizing that such watering was its master's to control. Too, perhaps it knew that this master was far superior to those of Earth, who would not water it if it did not wish to be watered.
The cactus's watering had been finished. The spider plant looked at it.
"I have been well watered," it said.
"I, too, have been well watered," said the cactus.
"My master has watered me well," said the spider plant.
"My master, too, has watered me well," said the cactus.
"I am to be placed in a hanging basket on the porch," said the spider plant.
"I, too, am to be placed in a hnaging basket on the porch," said the cactus.
"I wish you well," said the spider plant.
"I, too, wish you well," said the cactus.
"Tal," said the spider plant.
"Tal, too," said the cactus.
I did not think that the spider plant would object to being watered by its master again. For it realized that it was plant, and that here, unlike on Earth, it was likely to be owned and watered by many masters.
Beyond that, though, the writing is just complete shit. A lot of the books are written from 1st person perspective in very dry, jarring tone. It's very much in the tell and not in the show camp in terms of narrative. Most of the male lead characters are author self-inserts with rampant competency porn. If it was just a single one off book or just a few of them, I wouldn't think too much of it. There's just so fucking many. I both love and hate this series for being such shitty pulp trash.

Oskar Dirlewanger

i am the black niggers
Let me introduce you to by far the worst shit I've ever seen, Iron Gates.

It's a book by "Tempel Ov Blood" which is a pseudonym of some teenager associated with "Atomwaffen Division". If you don't know this absolutely autistic assemble of edgy spergs, they have a thread here:

Now the book itself, they consider it the most hardcore literary work ever conceived, something so brutal than even Marquis de Sade would shit himself out of sheer terror if he read it, so transgressive that Nietzsche would have a moral outrage over it, and so nazifascist it would trigger even Hitler.

This is the first paragraph of the book:

A portal opened up in the side of one of the metal hangar walls and a jeep slowly rolled out, powered by a cacophonous engine spurting pollution from it’s tailpipe. A drab olive gray, the well-maintained monster was driven by two masked guards and standing on the bed stood a monstrous woman, nearly six foot. The crowd erupted in screams of frenzy as the machine rolled slowly out, flanked by eight submachine gun carrying members of internal security, armed to the teeth and highly intimidating. The commandant standing on the bed was of super-high rank, wearing a pointed black helmet of fine mesh and one bleak bar of horizontal goggle lense and erstwhile garbed in a shining black outfit of skintight design and unknown fabric origin. Her large breasts shone like bleak and deadly moons encased in the shining black fabric, one of her waspish and skeletal hands carefully holding a vial holding a green poison liquid, her other clasped triumphantly on the bar separating the bed from the cab of the military automotive.
If you want to give yourself autism, here's the preview of the book:

Dom Cruise
It wasn't very weird, but as a teen I read a bunch of books by the late horror author Richard Laymon.

Now some of them were ok, they were like 80s schlocky horror B movies in book form, what set Laymon apart was his willingness to really go for it in the sex and gore department in a very unpretentious way unlike a lot of horror fiction, again, very schlocky, but kind of fun.

But he also really cranked them out and some were pretty mediocre and a few outright bad, the worst of which I read was Beware which was about an invisible man who likes to rape and kill people, I remember literally almost nothing about the novel other than the female protagonist gets raped by the invisible man and barely seems to notice, reacting in a "huh, that was kinda strange" way rather than, you know, being traumatized and freaking out.