Creeping along the walls of my home is an ever-expanding library of books by and for the deranged. I don't want to terrify you, but I know every secret of the ninja, and my section on metaphysical breast augmentation is far more than any one sexy man could masturbate to in a lifetime. Ten sexy men, maybe. Fifteen sexy men, absolutely, but at this point we're causing more masturbation problems than we're solving.
Simply unlock the other 90 percent of your brain for a larger bust! That's right, the script to Lucy was a book about giant titties all along.
As my book collection grew, I started to notice that there were certain authors who not only were crazy in very specific ways, but stayed that way their whole life. You might have read about self-appointed love guru and enemy of all self-lubrication Gregory Godek. He wrote the same romance guide over and over in order to prove two things. One, he's a nutbag. And two, there are really only a couple ways to finger a woman filled with pizza.
In the spirit of Gregory Godek, here are five other unhinged "experts" who spent their whole life rewriting the same stupid book:
Joseph Nicolosi is a psychologist who believes homosexuality is the result of a childhood trauma. That means he can treat gay clinically, and he's courageously dedicated his life to curing it.
"Your parents are trying to prevent what? Ha ha ... man, did they leave you in the wrong public park. Now let's pick a fun safe word and get started." -the stranger known only as Handsome Leonard
Most of the world agrees that conversion therapy is ridiculous, so what makes Nicolosi, Ph.D., think differently? Hmmm ... I mean, I didn't write a doctoral thesis on butt stuff, but let me think -- how could a man be certain that there was a way to resist a dong's primal urge to get buried in mustache? Unless ... no. It couldn't ... nahh ...
If gays wanted to be cured and there was a product that did it, the Bravo network would never need a second sponsor. Still, closeted Nicolosi, Ph.D., wrote four books on the subject, zero books on anything else, and claims to have cured 66 percent of his patients. According to my math, that means that for every four balls that go into his office, only one of them ends up in another man's eager mouth. And in regard to that last sentence, hello to all the Bing users who just found this article through a Phil Collins lyrics search. Here's something for you:
The Grammy Award-winning singer-songwriter is right. This gay conversion shit is silly.
When Joseph Nicolosi, Ph.D., says his homosexuality antidote has a 66 percent success rate, what exactly does that mean? I am so glad you asked. One of his books is called Healing Homosexuality: Case Stories of Reparative Therapy, and it's a collection of hand-picked stories about his patients overcoming their gayness. Let me be clear about this before I start: If you had a job doing highlights for butthole hair on the set of a cupcake reality show, your review of this book would be "gayest thing I've ever seen. 1 star."
What's this, gals? Why, it's Steve! Charlie! Edward! Tom! Father John! And look out, single ladies! Because after hard work and intense therapy, they can now resist their homosexual urges! Oh, YEAAAAH!
I've never had the best gaydar. I sometimes don't even know a guy is gay until he asks me why I don't have a boner during an airport restroom wrestling challenge. So it's hard for me to say with any accuracy that Joseph Nicolosi, Ph.D., writes "gayly." But here is how he describes meeting one of the homosexual patients he fixed.
His eyes flashed -- a fierce thrusting of heterosexual male energy bonded us together at once. He entered me like an Olympic diver -- noiselessly and with a nearly imperceptible splash.
I mean, it's subtle, but when straight guys recall meeting someone, they rarely comment on a man's handsomeness and creamy skin before describing every inch of his outfit, how it matched his piercing eyes, and how his body draped so well upon our fashion-forward furniture. Keep in mind this is Joseph Nicolosi, Ph.D., when he's trying to sound not only like a heterosexual, but like an expert on heterosexuality. The first draft was probably eight pages about the generous curve of Thomas James' dick basket as it danced among the long shadows of the magic hour.
Once Joseph is finished describing the girth and flavor of his patients' genitals to the reader, he gives a look inside his therapeutic process. He believes in a technique called Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing, which basically forces the patient to relive painful memories while you shake their eyeballs around. The theory is that it helps them process trauma like your brain normally would during sleeping REM. Clinically speaking, it doesn't work as well as exposure therapy, but when your fear is gay and your doctor is 6 tons of gay stuffed into a 120-pound sack, it's hard to keep "exposure therapy" from going past second base. Here, let me show you what Joseph counts as a "cure":
"I'm cured, doctor! I barely even vomit when I touch her va- ... when I touch her vaaa- ... v-vaaaaa- ... vaBLARRRRGGHH!!!"
This guy, "Albert," came to Nicolosi, Ph.D., with the same tired story. His horrible, broken childhood made him gay. So they explored his most painful memory -- a day when he was picked last for a sports game. The dark memory ate at his soul ... it made him feel like he wasn't one of the guys. There are pages of transcripts from these sessions. That's how gay this book is. Two grown men were sitting around some office so desperate for there to be an answer for their thirst for cock that they decided it had to be kickball shame. Kickball shame. If feeling like an asshole during kickball turned you gay, I'd be carrying show cats to my Prius right now, not carrying 34 kinds of HPV.
So this stupid pussy doctor treated this stupid pussy patient for years until they finally decided he was "cured." And during a follow-up visit years later, he told Dr. Nicolosi that he met a girl at the flower nursery, his favorite part of a woman is her African violet enthusiasm, he and his girlfriend love discussing his history of sex with men, and he can't quite bring himself to have any with her. Is that what counts as formerly gay? That's like bursting your head above water at a hot tub party and screaming, "I'm cured! Now time me, boys! Let's see how long I can stay straight! Giggle! Glbblblbbb!"
So this irresponsible dipshit maniac sits down to prove his system works, and THAT ... that man in a sexless co-ed flower arranging arrangement is the best success story he could come up with. What the hell are his other formerly gay patients doing? Trying to get semen out of their apron in a Jo-Ann Fabric break room? My point is, only dickbags care when a person is gay, and nobody cares more than this dickbag and his dickbag patients.
Ugh. You unimaginable piece of shit, Joseph Nicolosi, Ph.D.
You don't normally see a religious nut and a wizard in the same body outside of a Narnia porn parody, but the late William Alexander Oribello was both a Christian and a sorcerer. He claimed to control otherworldly forces with spells hidden in the Bible, and the reason you haven't heard of him is because that's fucking dumb and he of course didn't.
Create universes! Conjure floods! Double fish!
For book after book, William described rituals like lighting a talisman on fire to win free money or soaking a woman's name in a bowl of salt to get her to love you. In fact, most of the spells are this second one. This guy found the secret to unlimited Christ-given power and his first 20,000 ideas were all date rape. And while I'm no biblical scholar, it seems suspicious that God would take away someone's free will over some "magic bowl of salt" technicality.
I'm curious what the Godspell falling-in-love process is like. Does God create an opportunity for a subtle glance? A Tinder match? It's possible He appears in her bathtub and says, "Look, lady -- the guy folded up a drawing of you and put it in a moonlit iron chalice. You are now legally his. He also drew a couple forgotten ancient symbols that commanded me to give you butt implants. OK, ready? Dibble Dabble, God butt powers go!"
And upon reading those sacred magic words, rejoice and clap it, for God has made your butt fantastic.
I try to approach obvious dipshit liars with an open mind, but I can't get past the problem that these Bible spells are demonstrably ineffective. Oribello wrote so many books about money spells that if even 5 percent of them worked, he would have had enough of the world's wealth to cause a global economic crisis. And if he really knew how to make any woman love him in 1978, why wasn't he dating Lynda Carter in the skateboarding Wonder Woman outfit?
Checkmate, God magic.
William Alexander Oribello starts every book the same way -- an argument with an imaginary skeptic. The weird thing is that Oribello's idea of a skeptic isn't someone who thinks he's full of shit. His idea of a skeptic is someone who totally buys that money potions and irresistible sex spells exist, but isn't sure Jesus will be OK with them. William counters this by saying that most of the things you do in church every week are technically spells already. Prayers, passage recitals, songs ... why, churchgoers are probably casting thousands of cantrips right now by accident! Which might explain why churches find themselves with a strange abundance of free money and sexually irresistible altar boys.
Oribello sometimes took a break from Bible money spells to write about things like UFOs or how to defend yourself during astral plane battles. This seems like a pretty eclectic skill set, but basically, if something didn't exist, he would take your money to tell you about it. He also sold videos, and if you like watching bored men make up ritualized arts and crafts for 90 minutes, you will love "Get Rich Quick Spells." Please don't everyone watch it at once or all the money will just panic and run around in a circle.
I guess after you write enough books about money spells, you decide you've solved all problems ever. So William wrote a book called Cosmic Secrets of the Masters of Wisdom: A Final Solution to World Problems. After all, it turned out so well for the last occultist who decided he'd found a Final Solution to a question. That's how bad William Alexander Oribello's books are -- the title of his magnum opus is barely a word away from the same thing Hitler called the Holocaust.
As of press time, this is the only Amazon review of Cosmic Secrets of the Masters of Wisdom: A Final Solution to World Problems.
Do white and black children learn differently? Some say, "Of course." Others might say, "Maybe you should shut up, white idiot?" That's because white people tell racial jokes the same way we ask our girlfriends for a threesome -- delicately and naively, before ruining everything for everyone. So let's get started.
"Good morning, class. I'm Miss Whitebread, and y-your tongue is out? Oh, I get it! You black students think you're at the doctor! No, listen: You're at school. S-K-OOOOOOL."
A name can really frame a person's life. For instance, if you named your kid Spurt Rockwell, he's almost certain to grow up and fall through a time portal to overthrow a Martian star-tyrant. And when you name a baby Jawanza Kunjufu, you are practically locking him into a life as an African-American community leader. A Jawanza Kunjufu does not grow up to be a skydiver or a magician. If you sold dashikis over the phone and saw "Jawanza Kunjufu" on your cold call list, you wouldn't be able to hear anything over the cash register sounds in your brain. That's the blackest name I've ever heard, and my president is Barack Obama.
"Jawanza Kunjufu" sounds like a Mos Def lyric I would sing as "Ya wantsta come choo choo" with humiliating sincerity. He sounds like an exchange student Martin Lawrence would have comical misunderstandings with through the use of split screen. But in fact, he's a man who wrote a book on educating black children, then typed it slightly differently over a hundred more times.
Black Students. Middle Class Teachers. is a book for bewildered white ladies to learn how racist they are while at the same time learn all the differences between white and black children. That may sound strange, and it kind of is, but if this shit was easy, Dangerous Minds would have been a musical comedy. What is truly strange, though, is how each of his books talks to the reader as if it's their first day teaching -- as if they stumbled out of the woods, haven't seen a single movie about teaching, think people of color are a liberal myth, and now suddenly find themselves in charge of a black math class. I always assumed teachers became that after years of training, but I guess inner cities hire teachers like they hire Green Lanterns -- a hero from an alien culture thrusts an impossible responsibility upon a confused white person with his dying breath.
"In brightest kids ... in blackest math ... no institutionalized prejudice shall escape my wrath ..."
Let's pretend for a minute you had a smart-ass brain that filtered everything through clumsy stereotypes. Now, with that in mind, start making stupid jokes about what might be in a book called 200+ Educational Strategies to Teach Children of Color. Congratulations, you've just written 200+ Educational Strategies to Teach Children of Color. They should have called this book Vaguely Racist Classroom Activities for Confused Amateur Teachers and Under. Let me share some with you.
After learning your students' names (Entry 2) and their birthdays (Entry 3), Entry 4 is to teach your class about President Obama. Fine. Maybe he was getting the obvious ones out of the way first. But then Entry 5 was to teach your class about Michelle Obama. And -- I'm not kidding here -- so were entries 26, 28, and 29. The ideas in this book dried up so quickly that by the time Dr. Kunjufu got to Number 19, his advice was to watch BET with your class. At Entry 40 he suggested listening to hip-hop, and 50 entries later, he had his best idea yet: listening to hip-hop.
"Class, your homework tonight is realizing your crew is through because I'm 2 legit 2 quit."
This book never stops being amazing. Number 33 is to keep the thermostat low because black children like to "keep their jackets on (a hip-hop style)." I now feel like I'm actually worse at teaching children of color with that bouncing around my brain. But without a doubt, the best part of 200+ Educational Strategies to Teach Children of Color is that it stops at 105! With 95 (plus) entries to go, the book just fucking ends! I ... I mean, that's like starting a sentence about how insane and lazy that is and then just.
I seriously may never get over how there are only 105 educational strategies in 200+ Educational Strategies to Teach Children of Color.
Besides having far fewer than 200 total ideas and far fewer than five good ideas, most of the entries from 200+ EStTCoC were already explored in Dr. Kunjufu's other books, such as Critical Issues in Educating African American Youth, Keeping Black Boys Out of Special Education, Countering the Conspiracy to Destroy Black Boys Volume I, II, III & IV, and my personal favorite, Hip Hop Street Curriculum: Keeping It Real!
Hold on. You want me to learn spelling from the writers of "In da Club" and "Get Ur Freak On"?
Maybe I'm a dumbass cracker and not the hero in some tale of the Emperor's New Racial Empowerment, but I truly believe Black Grade School for Dummies is not a book that needed to be written 38 times. At best, that's a screenplay for Arnold Schwarzenegger and Dax Shepard that needed to be written 38 times.
"Black meets wack in this summer's most outrageous comedy! Mr. Panzerboten and Dr. Miraclewhip are back again to teach another group of underprivileged kids that FUN is colorblind!"
One day while driving through Texas, a timid evangelist named Phil Phillips suddenly heard the voice of God. He told Phil, "Satan is using toys to control the minds of children! You need to tell everyone! I would, but, you know, appearing in cars takes ... so much ... God power! I'm f-fading! Warn them, Phil! Warn them of Thundercaaaaaaats!"
Why would God make such a moronic request? I think it might be like when He asked Abraham to kill his own son, or when Christina Aguilera releases a fragrance -- just something to test the upper limits of their fans' stupidity. The important thing is, it worked. Phil started chronicling his new fear of He-Man, Smurfs, and Care Bears in a book called Turmoil in the Toybox. Once he knew to look for it, Phil was now seeing hidden messages in every toy and cartoon. Wizards! Homosexuality! Sharing! Homosexuality! Homosexuality! Homosexuality!!!!
"To be truthful, I thought it rather strange that God was talking to me about toys." -Phil Phillips
Despite the urgency of God's request, Phil never managed to explain how or why toys are evil. Most of the book is spent simply describing what a Barbie is, or pointing out which puppet he thinks might be a Yoda. It's more like a toy catalog written by a confused grandmother than it is a spiritual survival guide. If demons really are hiding inside Cabbage Patch Kids and Cobra Commander, this won't help you stop them. The whole book was so unforgivably stupid that God didn't even want the "Story By" credit.
"To be truthful, the voices in my head usually only whisper, 'Don't mention cock. DON'T MENTION DELICIOUS COCK!" -Phil Phillips
So yes, it was badly written and absurd, but Turmoil in the Toybox was purchased by thousands of frightened idiot parents, and together they got nearly zero toys removed from the market. His book ended up being a pointless, whiny cash grab. Phil Phillips could not have failed his Lord any harder if he'd killed 500 children with a book on bestiality safety.
Undeterred, Phil continued his crusade against children's entertainment in eight more books, like Saturday Morning Mind Control, Dinosaurs, The Bible, Barney and Beyond, and the weirdly specialized THE TRUTH ABOUT POWER RANGERS. Now, if a writer pitched me an article called X Cartoons With Shocking Occult Influences, I'd say, "OK, that sounds interesting." If he wrote for 183 pages without giving a single good example, I'd say, "Delete that. Don't let anyone know you typed it." And if this god damn lunatic suggested writing eight nearly identical sequels, I'd speak only in karate, certain my life was now in danger. Does that make me a better editor than God? I ... holy crap, I think it does.
My mind! Hrrk! In my hubris ... I never ... considered ... Phil could be right!
I have a confession to make: I only bought Phil's books to make fun of them. I think it's really unlikely Satan is involved in making cartoons to desensitize children to the ways of sorcery. I'm not ruling it out, but it will take someone more persuasive than Phil to convince me. But let's say you were backwoods enough to be on the fence going into a book about demonic cartoons ... could he talk you into his way of thinking?
Not even a little bit. He flails wildly for any detail that violates any vague concept from anywhere in the Bible. For instance, he knows Smurfs are evil because God said so, but he isn't really sure how. The best he could come up with was they were gayish because there were so many boys. Plus, they have blue skin and black lips. Human dead bodies are like that -- that's maybe something? Oh, and Papa Smurf and Gargamel do witchcraft, kind of? These are the actual observations he uses to justify his campaign to destroy them. And the majority of his hate doesn't come from subtle occult or corpse references. He calls for cartoons to be taken off the air for ...
Caring for others!
It's ... it's unclear!
So Phil Phillips is a man with a single-minded need to destroy the Care Bears, G.I. Joe, and Rainbow Brite for shallow or unspecified reasons if it's the last thing he does. And during all that cartoon watching, he never noticed which characters shared those same traits? Phil, buddy, you're the bad guy in this story. That voice you heard in your car was Krang or Serpentor, and you're just Starscream. You're Major Bludd and Beast Man, blunderheading your way through a series of foiled plans to destroy kindness or steal rock and roll. The only difference is, Phil, your entire life's work would have been pointless even if you hadn't failed at all of it.
If you're interested, any of Phil Phillips' books are available for a penny on Amazon, but everything you need to know about him can be summed up in five minutes of listening to him lisp about Skeletor:
In 1985, a writer named Doris and an illustrator named Graci started publishing children's books about terribly depressing things. Divorce, depression, drug abuse ... no topic was off limits for these colored pencil tours of hell. And while I'm sure these were made with the best of intentions, they ventured too deeply into the darkness ... they brought something back with them. Doris and Graci began losing what you and I might call "sanity." They produced a book about a boy's lonely march toward death and called it DAVID HAS AIDS. It's what you would find in the waiting room if your dentist was daemon-sultan Azathoth.
"W-what? It's like what, lady?"
Not all of their titles are as on-the-head as DAVID HAS AIDS. For example, their storybook on alcoholic parents is called I KNOW THE WORLD'S WORST SECRET. Their one on sexual abuse is Something Must Be Wrong With Me. At a certain point, I think they may have started naming their books based on phrases they heard each other shrieking during naps. The stories inside started coming more and more unhinged as well. Here's a page from their helpful guide to dealing with dementia, MARIA'S GRANDMA GETS MIXED UP. See if you can spot the part where the narrator starts laying into God.
"She's totally nuts and you know EXACTLY what you did, God."
Moments later in MARIA'S GRANDMA GETS MIXED UP, the story takes a very expected twist.
There's a proud tradition of explaining awful things to children in insane ways. They learn about crime from talking dogs, drowning from paramilitary commandos, and inappropriate touching from men in fetish gear. So it shouldn't be too unusual for for these stories to be bizarre, yet I was not ready for the tale of Daniel, a boy with no legs and half a spine. His book is published under the title Help! Fire! probably because its true name must never be spoken.
"Will I have legs in heaven, John Oates?"
"Kid, the only heaven I know is the one in your eyes."
"Oh... oh, kiss me already!"
Another unaltered and tender moment from Help! Fire!
As they published more and more, it seemed clear Doris and Graci wanted to create a vibrantly illustrated storybook for every possible childhood trauma. But where do you go from legless boy teabagging his brothers in a burning building? You go back to the basics -- DON'T LOOK AT ME is a book for kids dealing with fat and stupid.
Later, I had to add 2 and 3 on the blackboard. I wrote 7.
The teacher asked, "You miserable pork fuck. Nothing is worse than that."
I shit my pants.
It was worse.
After 15 pages of fussing about his weight problem and grades, the main character of DON'T LOOK AT ME meets a black sheep who speaks in the tongue of man. It's not clear if this really happened or if it was a manifestation of his own shattered mind. Either way, he felt better by the end of his fat, stupid story, and Doris and Graci had now completed books about adoption, learning disabilities, amputation, alcoholism, and every conceivable childhood tragedy.
It was time to move on to the inconceivable.
They published My Friend the Enemy, a book to help girls deal with life in a Japanese prisoner of war camp. It helped me realize something important: If two women are sitting next to each other and one suggests setting a children's book in a Japanese prison camp while the other silently peels her own face off, I will say, "Oh, my. What perfectly equal amount of crazy."
The slavery and maggots suck, but dude -- this book GETS ME.
SPOILER ALERT: My Friend the Enemy, no bullshit, ends with the girl and her guard frolicking away together. It was a love story the whole time.
Even if this was a well-written and inspirational story, and it's so not, what concentration camp library would stock it? If Japan invades and captures you, how much of a dent will a picture book put in that misery? Historically speaking, there's a reason we live in a world that generates 10,000 holocaust punchlines a minute, and this is the first recorded instance of a Japanese prison camp joke:
Awww, I got this one last time!
It got to the point where Doris and Graci started solving problems so specialized that they might not even exist. Their greatest literary achievement, maybe the greatest literary achievement, is called DON'T MAKE ME GO BACK, MOMMY -- A Child's Book About Satanic Ritual Abuse.
A day care run by satanists might sound completely imaginary, but on the back cover, Doris claims she did "months of intensive research into the nature and practice of ritual abuse." I'm not sure what that means, but it's probably the reason ravens line her property at night waiting to be commanded. From cover to cover, DON'T MAKE ME GO BACK, MOMMY is intense and ceaseless madness. There are more references to nude children than a reasonable person would ever need, and the illustrations look like Charles Manson acted as his own courtroom sketch artist.
During her "intensive research," Doris must have come across some cult that did bizarre things with sixth birthdays, bathrooms, and chicken, because these symptoms are listed in the back of the book as signs parents should look for, and the main character in the story suffers from all of them.
So the girl refuses to eat chicken because of something the devil worshipers did, but ... what could that be!? And why wouldn't the author tell us!? Eighty percent of the book is a frank discussion of animals being turned inside out and cultist-on-kid action. I-is it worse than that? I need to know -- what the shit did Satan do with that chicken?
This is not a book for any young reader going through a tough time. It's for one very specific child abducted by one very specific chicken-based cult. So why publish 7,000 copies of it? That's like putting all your money into a lottery where the jackpot is one broken child receiving a permanent keepsake of his or her unwanted devil sex. My point is, sane people wouldn't have done this.
And let's say for a minute this nightmare of a book found itself in the hands of the very kid Doris wrote it for. Wouldn't it have been faster to go into their room and whisper, "Psssst! Wake up! I'm Doris, and this is Graci. We know you're having a rough week, so we painted this therapeutic mural on your wall! It's you in a towel, talking about satanic butt salve! Bye!"
So yes, this book probably did more to traumatize non-molested children than anything else. Here's a crazy thought, though: What if it didn't? Let's imagine this baby's first Necronomicon wasn't two dingbats having an emotional breakdown with colored pencils. Let's say it kind of helped. Wouldn't it still be useless? When you survive a satanic cult, therapists don't toss you a book and say, "That oughta do it!" The more I think about it, the more I realize that DON'T MAKE ME GO BACK, MOMMY only makes sense if it was written as a warning by the molesty cultists themselves. Gasp. My God, that would explain how Doris and Graci know so much about the chicken.
Seanbaby is the creator of the critically acclaimed iOS game Calculords (now on Android!) and has never performed satanic actions with chicken. You can follow him on Twitter.
For more of his literary analysis, see 3 Guides That Do the Exact Opposite of What They Claim or 4 Unintentionally Hilarious Guides to Depressing Situations.
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