So Sam McPheeters is apparently some music guy that I would care about if I didn't only listen to totally brootal metal. So I'm ignoring the few little glitches that should really bump this down to four stars, because he's a musician and he gets a bonus star just for being able to read and write.

This book needs to be adapted into a TV series yesterday. It's a modern, personal, egoistic, petty version of Dr. Strangelove, and it gave me a wicked Armageddogasm. ( )

good. scary shit ( )

A damn clever book with Vonnegut written all over it. ( )