Dancer of Gor

Somehow, I think the dancing sex slave has it better off than anyone who reads this.

What page I survived until: 46 (There are over 400 pages, but I’ve skimmed the rest after the stupidity reached carcinogenic levels, and it’s the same all the way through. You want to get a morality tumor, be my guest.)

Boredom: 145 out of 500 video game breaks

Needless Description: 411 out of 500 meditative epiphanies on a petunia

Cruddy Metaphors: 450 out of 500 cats on the hot tin penis of my soul

Thematically, Just Plain Wrong: FRICKIN’ INFINITY DIVIDED BY ZERO out of 500 skinheads setting endangered rhinos on fire

The gist of it: “I got kidnapped and I’m a sex slave for all-powerful males from another planet. And you know what? It’s fun. I love it.”

Once upon a time, there was a fellow named John Norman who liked to masturbate. He had a curse on his family that, anytime any one of them masturbates, a terrible book gets published based on what their fantasy was about. Now, normally his family never masturbated because of this, except for one time when his great step-uncle Rodrigo was responsible for “Pugs in Bikinis: the Repuggening.” But John loved it. Thus, the Gor series was born, with about 30 books in tow.

This is the 22nd, and unfortunately your loyal hellbrarian couldn’t get very far. For this piece of sample dialogue, which is the spirit of the dialogue in the entire volume, I suggest you wear protective goggles. That way the text might get blurry and you can’t read it.

“You are doubtless the sort of female who has intellectual pretensions,” he said.

I was silent.

“Do you think you are intelligent?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“You are not,” he said.

I was silent.

“But you do, doubtless, have some form of intelligence,” he said, “in your small, nasty way.”

I looked up at him, angrily.”

“And you will need every bit of it, I assure you,” he said, “just to stay alive.”

I looked at him, frightened.

“Hateful slut,” he said.

Yep, that’s this entire book in a nutshell, despite the main character being a woman. Basically, John Norman really, really, really hates feminists, and thinks that women should be more willing to be sex slaves. This is evident in the Gorean counterculture that worships him, that actually practices this ideology based on this gobshite.

The only reason I can think of that would explain this angry masculine horndoggitude is that Mr. Norman got his leg chopped off by Moby-Tits, A.K.A. the feminist whale. But in his quest for revenge, he became much worse than the monster he battled.

TO THE LAST I WHINE AT THEE; FROM TESTOSTERONE'S HEART I STAB AT THEE; FOR HATE'S SAKE, I SPIT MY LAST RHETORIC AT THEE!

To be honest, it was tempting to put this book down from the very beginning, which, might I add, is a six-page text brick filled to the brim with edgy run-on sentences, with no paragraph breaks what-so-frickin’-ever. The subject is the main character, Doreen, and her internal monologue about her innermost desire to be someone else’s servant whore.

I’m aware that I haven’t read all of it. However, I looked at the very back of the book, and she’s still calling someone “master” and walking naked in the woods on the very last page, glorifying and justifying her plight.

So yeah, really hate this one. If John Norman was an adorable toddler, I’d field-goal-kick him back into the womb. But seeing as doing so might trap me in a sex dungeon in the Detroit projects, I’ll refrain from doing so.

Still, I’m open to different opinions. If you like this book…

...I know a place where you'll fit in just fine.

Next week: the classic whinefest that is Ethan Frome.

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