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Jon Konrath’s latest is out

vol13-cover-front-6x9Jon Konrath is back with his latest dose of cough medicine, Lunchables, and insanity. Titled Vol. 13, it is twenty stories of absurd Konrathian madness, with plenty of near-future dystopian ruin and pop-culture humor.

Now available from Paragraph Line Books. Here’s the linkage:

  • Kindle – the book is part of Kindle Unlimited, so subscribers can read it for free.
  • Paperback – it’s in Kindle Match, so if you buy the paperback, you get the kindle version for free
  • Goodreads – go mark it as “to read” and tell all your creepy friends.
  • The book page on Konrath’s site, where you can see all the insane story titles.

Goethe Strasse: A short story by Joseph Hirsch

Joseph Hirsch is the author of The Dove and the Crow from the Paragraph Line Books. Learn more about him at www.joeyhirsch.com.

My two friends had already been kicked off the ICE (Intercontinental Express) after the little porter had come by and found them without tickets. I had somehow escaped the wrath of the train agent, and now I was headed to Frankfurt alone, to the red light district and its whorehouses. I took a gulp from my premixed Jack & Coke and watched the little German towns as they breezed past. Transoms and mercury vapor lamps flashed in the night, graffiti-scarred railway platforms and slumbering Hessen villages.

This was to be our last Saturday together in Germany before deploying for a year-long tour of duty to Camp Victory, Iraq. Some of the soldiers had wives or girlfriends, and children. They would be spending these last solemn hours together with their families, the atmosphere in the cloistered living rooms heavy with the weight of their impending departure, and the knowledge that they might not come back. Assuming they did make it safely through the year, they could potentially return absent an eye, a leg, a testicle, or conceivably even a mind.

I thankfully had no such worries. I had arrived late to my unit in Germany. I had spent the last few months struggling to adjust to life in the Army, to mastering my Squad Automatic Weapon, to memorizing how to safely cauterize a wound and give a saline IV, or how to tie a tourniquet around a lacerated vein. When the weekends finally came and we were released from duty, I typically wandered around the cobblestone streets, unable to speak the language and usually too drunk to even make an attempt. Thus, there was no chance to meet real women, let alone get involved in some sort of lengthy courtship, only to have the same truncated by a tearful goodbye as I left her on the runway at Ramstein Airbase and walked into the mouth of a C-17 Hercules, flying off to Iraq…

I finished my drink and struggled against my thoughts. There was a steamy hiss and then a mechanical clang as the doors of the train opened. I stepped out into the Hauptbahnhof, a massive secular cathedral built in honor of Deutschland’s true religion, punctuality.

I ignored the Turks selling hash, sidestepped a verminous claque of cooing pigeons. An African couple pushed a stroller and walked mutely past me. Love…the word came unbidden. It was a sham. I had quickly learned that no marriage truly survived the Army. I had one friend whose wife worked at the bank branch on-base. She was in charge of their joint account, and while he had been on an 18-month deployment to Afghanistan, she had burnt through roughly $20,000 of his money on Amazon.com and Ebay. Love…Another buddy was so paranoid about his wife sleeping with other men that he had come home one evening, and due to some miscommunication had electrocuted his cable guy with a stun gun, shocking the poor bastard with several-thousand volts because he thought the man was screwing his wife.

As for the rest of my friends, they were not loyal enough to even be paranoid. They called themselves “geographical bachelors,” and they had long ago resigned themselves to the fact that their wives might cheat on them, and so they usually felt obligated to cheat first. Naturally, the ring came off of the finger every weekend.

I walked down Goethe Strasse, toward the neon tenderloin already glutted with tourists, drug dealers, and perverts. Clearly paying a whore for sex was more pragmatic than gambling on something as shifty and deceptive as love. I had never been with a prostitute before, but I was curious. Money for sex: so simple, and ancient.

Steam leaked from the wet sewers nestled among the cobblestones. The fetid air wafted up toward the glass fronts of the Shisha shops, and mixed with the smell of heavily-spiced Turkish schwarma meat. There were several houses of ill-repute on either side of the street. I walked up to the nearest one, an old Hussar-style building with mansard folds on the roof. Cars honked in the middle of the street, protesting the standstill traffic. And then, as I stepped inside, all became quiet.

The smell of pine-scented floor treatment filled my lungs. The light was a low-wattage maroon, making all of the shapes dark as my eyes struggled to adjust. Men poured past me on the narrow staircase as I struggled upward. The smell of cigarettes, body odor, and talcum powder comingled and formed the unmistakable musk of sex. I came to the first floor, where several doors on either end of the room were open and women stood, waiting. Muffled groans came from behind the closed doors.

Directly in front of me sat a woman in a latex corset with a mesh body-stocking underneath. Her hair was dyed black and her skin was pale. She held a riding crop in her hand which terminated in a cat-o-nine tails. Next to her was a sandwich board which listed the various services she offered: Lights discipline-Heavy discipline-Spanking. I had already gotten my fill of corporal punishment in the Army. I kept it moving, and men continued to walk around me. They stared at the women, who continued about their daily chores with studied indifference, as if they were a school of goldfish that had grown used to being watched while they swam in their tank.  

Near the end of the hall, I saw a woman who piqued my interest. Her features were cold, distinctly eastern European. Her eyes were a wolfish, gelid blue and her expression was sullen. Something about her reminded me of an old girlfriend, from a past life before the Army had gotten hold of me and filled my head with thoughts of war.

“Wie viele?” I asked.

“Funfzig Euro,” she said.

I pulled out the bill and handed it to her. I wasn’t sure whether or not I was supposed to haggle, but I had no intention of doing so. It was certainly worth fifty Euro to bury my face in that hair, pant into the nautilus of her ear until I came, remembering for a drunken, sweaty hour that I was once a teenager and that I had been in love.

We walked into the room and she closed the door. The lights were already dim and I could see the balcony across the street, where a naked prostitute smoked a cigarette and stared down into the slum below us. There was a sound to my left, a light splashing. I turned to look and saw that the uncanny doppelgänger of my high-school girlfriend was already naked, and with one leg perched on the edge of the porcelain, she had begun to urinate into the sink.

I watched her until she finished, remarking to myself that Germany and America were two remarkably different nations. She finished up and went over to the bed, which could more properly have been called a mattress. She lay down, splayed in a glorious pose fit for a charcoal study. I began undressing, becoming increasingly self-conscious as I took off each undergarment, realizing that she held the advantage because she was already naked and scrutinizing me. It felt like I was stripping for her edification, and we both repressed a momentary smile.

I kicked off the rest of my clothes and headed over to the bed. She deftly worked a condom over my penis and we began. She was responsive, and warm, but I knew it would be some kind of sick betrayal to attempt to make genuine love to her. I pumped away, rubbing my nose into her hair and trying to recall that girl in high-school, chasing that sensation I knew I would never feel again, the one I had no right to anymore. She was as tight as a pharmaceutical bottle and I had to suppress a laugh, thinking that many a woman who would brand her with a scarlet letter had probably seen more action, and with less to show for it.

I came in short order and rolled off of her. She handed me a washcloth and I rubbed myself down. Voices from the hallway came to us now, a muttered babble of Turkish interspersed with German. She handed me a cigarette and lit it for me. I took a drag. Gauloises, Blonde. I had discovered them back in Darmstadt. In Germany there were still cigarette vending machines all over the place.

She smoked her own cigarette and tapped the mattress. “Good bed,” she said.

“Yeah…”

I wondered what her story was. Had she been impressed into this life, kidnapped by a Bulgarian Mafioso who sold girls to some sadistic pimp? I tried not to think of it, whatever kind of transaction it was that I had been complicit in, and what percentage of my soul it may have cost me to lay there with her on the mattress for five minutes. No matter how bad it was, I mused, it still wasn’t as horrific as marriage.

I suddenly stood up and went over to my pants. I dug into the pockets and came up with a ten Euro note. I gave it to her. Her eyes widened momentarily, and then she kissed me on the cheek. “Danke Schon.”

“Bitte schon.”  I said.

Then I dressed and got out of there. A week later I was already in Iraq.

Available Now: He by Jon Konrath

We’re proud to announce Jon Konrath’s latest book, He. 6x9-frontcover-he-180-20150804

According to Konrath:

It consists of a hundred short microfiction pieces. Each piece begins with the word “He.” Like my book Atmospheres, the pieces are related, but if you flipped the book open to any random piece, you could read just that and read it and then LOL and put the book back next to the toilet and finish your business.

The links:

The book is on Kindle Unlimited, so if you have that, you can read it for free and appease Jeff Bezos’s race to the bottom of authors being a worthless resource lining his coffers. It is also on Kindle Match, so if you buy the paperback from Amazon, you can download the book on Kindle for free.

Get Bent by Joseph Hirsch

I like “genre-bending,” as Rory Costello once called what I do. Sometimes I get carried away with myself and piss readers off with my experimentation. My novel Kentucky Bestiary (available from Paragraph Line, buy ten copies now, thank you) was, much like the alter-ego of scribe John Fante “neither fish nor fowl.” The first half of the book was a police procedural, while the second half was a supernatural horror story.

There are at least two “three-star” reviews on Amazon for Kentucky Bestiary. A three-star review, according to the Great Satan Jeff Bezos, means the readers thought the book was just okay, not good. One of the readers said, in essence, “Hirsch was on a roll with the police procedural, but all of a sudden the story dovetailed into this absurd horror and fantasy yarn.” Another three-star reviewer said, basically, “The first half of the book was so boring, and was just another humdrum cop yarn. But the second half, the horror half, was great.”

The comedian Mitch Hedberg (RIP) once said, “You can’t please everybody. And last night, all of those people were at my show.” I guess you could say that, as a writer, I can’t please everybody, and all those people read Kentucky Bestiary. But I wrote it, and I like it, and whether it is selfish of me to say this or not, I feel like that is all a writer need say to feel (s)he accomplished his/her goals.

Melville and Fitzgerald died believing themselves to be mediocrities. Their books get a lot of “five-star” reviews these days, but if Amazon existed in the American Renaissance or Roaring Twenties period, I’ll bet you Moby Dick and The Great Gatsby would not have been treated as classics, but as puzzling failures.

Not that I’m comparing myself to either one of those men. The bottom line is that I will have to be dead for fifty years or so before I get to find out whether or not I’m worth a shit as a writer, at least as far as history is concerned.

Editor’s note: Joseph Hirsch is the author of The Dove and the Crow.

Why do we have to wait so long for Westerns that are worth a shit? By Joseph Hirsch

Joseph Hirsch is the author of The Dove and the Crow from Paragraph Line Books.

gun, fight, gunfighter, cowboy, west, wild, danger, adventure, blur, abstract, group, team, posse, justice, law, police, marshall, western,

 

Roger Ebert (RIP), in his review of The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford, observed that “[t]he Western has been mostly in hibernation since the 1970s, but now I sense it stirring in rebirth. We have a program to register the most-read reviews on my Web site, and for the month of September the overwhelming leader was not Eastern Promises, not Shoot ’em up, not The Brave One, but 3:10 to Yuma. Now here is another Western in the classical tradition.”

Ebert was right, of course, but his musings beg the question: how many genres go into “hibernation?” Jesse James was the first great Western since Unforgiven, in my opinion (1992). Jesse James was made in 2007. Fifteen years is a long time to wait, for anything.

It doesn’t seem to me like other genres (from crime pictures to romantic comedies) “hibernate” or are even held to the same standard as the Western. The genre (both in print and film) is always, according to some, on its deathbed. I never hear people proclaim that “SF is dead,” probably because it is, by nature, future and idea-oriented, whereas the Western (excluding subgenres) is concerned with the past, which is fixed in place.

Just thinking out loud.

PTSD as permanent pubescence by Joseph Hirsch

Editor’s note: Joseph Hirsch wrote Kentucky Bestiary and The Dove and the Crow.

vets-ptsd

What is PTSD? According to Wikipedia, the only source worth quoting aside from the King James Bible, “Post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) may develop after a person is exposed to one or more traumatic events, such as major stress, sexual assault, terrorism, or other threats on a person’s life. The diagnosis may be given when a group of symptoms, such as disturbing recurring flashbacks, avoidance or numbing of memories of the event, and hyperarousal, continue for more than a month after the occurrence of a traumatic event.”

For every person it’s different, I suppose. A woman who was sexually assaulted is likely to experience her PTSD differently than me, a veteran of the war in Iraq.

Portrayals of the disorder range from the highly memorable (Travis Bickle, in Taxi Driver), to high parody (John Rambo, as played by Sylvester Stallone in the Rambo series). The Great War vet and author Ernst Junger once said something to the effect that war was a schooling of the heart, a fire that could temper a man like steel in the forge, or melt him if he was not up to the challenge. What’s so absurd about the fictional character of John Rambo is not so much that he is tempered by his experiences in Indochina; he is given a steroid injection by the Vietnam war, which is a silly bit of farce that Gus Hasford called “bullshit,” shouting it from the rooftops (Gus was a marine who wrote The Short-Timers, which was turned into the Stanley Kubrick film, Full Metal Jacket). I think Sly Stallone actually spent the Vietnam War coaching soccer at a boarding school for young girls in Sweden, but I’m too lazy to consult the oracular vulgate of Wikipedian truths to find out right now.

The most even-handed treatment of the illness, for my money, is John Sheppard’s Alpha Mike Foxtrot. Read it if you haven’t (I may read it again here, soon).

For me, PTSD is like a second, permanent pubescence. My nerves are a mess, and I never truly feel calm. I try to limit my interaction with women to my professional life (writing and pursuing my Master’s) degree. It’s not that I’m a misogynist; it’s just that women are biologically trained, for solid evolutionary reasons, to despise weak men.

I remember a female comedian a long time ago (maybe Judy Tenuta) having a bit about how she had to fart really badly on a date, held it in, and then exploded like a balloon releasing helium the moment she got home.

I feel a psychic pressure akin to Judy’s gas, building in me constantly, making my hands tremble and my voice quake. Frankly, the act of trying to conceal how weak I am (how I was melted by the fire to which Junger alluded), is just too taxing, and I prefer to stay home, listen to music, write, and walk my dog.

Another comic (this time I’m sure it was Bill Hicks) once said that the show Blind Date made masturbation look like a spiritual quest. I have to concur, and I think I’m retired from the dating game, permanently now.

My only hope for love or companionship at this point is going the Bukowski route, using what I think he called the dim flame of his literary talent to draw butterflies.

veterans-crisis-line

How far are Furries from Zooeys? by Joseph Hirsch

Joseph Hirsch is the author of The Dove and the Crow, now available from Paragraph Line Books. 

Sex is strange, and, while it’s not my place to judge, “furries” strike me as rather odd fetishists. A furry, according to Wikipedia, the only source that can be quoted according to the latest MLA regulations, states that “…furry fandom is a subculture interested in fictional anthropomorphic animal characters with human personalities and characteristics. Examples of anthropomorphic attributes include exhibiting human intelligence and facial expressions, the ability to speak, walk on two legs, and wear clothes. Furry fandom is also used to refer to the community of people who gather on the Internet and at furry conventions.”

Furries needn’t extend their interest to the bedroom, but I’m a pervert, so I’m only interested in the salacious aspects of their lifestyle.

An even more bizarre (and, as of now, entirely fictional) subculture, is that of the “Zooeys.” Zooeys are the creation of  Jon Konrath, and they inhabit the dystopian alternative present day presented in his cyberpunk opus, The Memory Hunter. Zooeys, to put it bluntly, are humans who take advantage of surgical enhancements, implants, and alterations, in order to turn themselves into “transhuman” creatures, if you will, half-human and half bull hybrids, for instance, resembling Minotaurs of mythology. These are men and women who pay beacoup bucks to acquire tails, snouts, fur, etcetera.

My question is how far are we from this fictional creation of Konrath’s becoming a reality?

I read quite a few blogs, from the far right View from the Right (hosted by the now-deceased culture warrior Lawrence Auster), to the far left-leaning Beyond High Brow, run by Robert Lindsay, a linguist and diehard communist. Both Lindsay and Auster were adherents of what Margaret Thatcher (channeling Austrian school economist Robert Higgs, I believe) once called the “ratchet effect,” the idea that when the Left has cultural (or economic, or political) power, they can continue to turn the wheel to their advantage, but all conservatives can hope to do is not to turn back the wheel, but rather just to hold it in place and stave off further leftist gains.

So, how many more turns of the wheel must we wait before these man-beast hybrids who give reactionaries nightmares are copulating in our streets? I give it six months. Oh, and check out The Memory Hunter, if you haven’t read it yet.

Vaginal Cosmogony by Joseph Hirsch

Editor’s Note: Joseph Hirsch is the author of the recently released The Dove and the Crow

Birth+of+Venus-1600x1200-2117

Awhile back I was doing research for a project about a goddess who assumes human form, a woman may, in fact, have been responsible for the creation of the entire universe unbeknownst to the people in whose midst she walked.

One of the books I read in preparation for the project was The Great Cosmic Mother: Rediscovering the Religions of the Earth by Monica Sjoo and Barbara Mor. One of the images in the book, painted by Sjoo, was very striking, and was entitled “God Giving Birth.” It featured a hairless woman squatting, her bald head surrounded by celestial bodies, a child emerging from her womb.

As I read the book, and even as I wrote the “Goddess,” project previously mentioned, a question that some might regard as ridiculous kept springing to mind. Was there a woman whose beauty was powerful enough for me to realistically imagine not just a child, but the entire universe, emanating from her body?

I’ve asked myself the question repeatedly, and, scouring everything from personal experience to popular culture, two likely candidates spring to mind. One is a woman personally known to me, who I won’t embarrass by naming; the other is Anjelica Huston.

In her prime (or at least the beginning of my pubescence) she presented a beauty, power, and intelligence that was not just attractive, but somewhat terrifying. I remember watching her in the filmic adaptation of the Roald Dahl novel, The Witches. I especially remember the scene wherein she turned a boy into a mouse, and I remember wishing she’d turn me into her personal mouse.

Hers was (and is) a beauty which recalls the immortal words of the French poet Charles Baudelaire: “There are women who inspire you with the desire to conquer them and to take your pleasure of them; but this one fills you only with the desire to die slowly beneath her gaze.”

Weird Acid or Acidic Weirdness? By Joseph Hirsch

 

gun, fight, gunfighter, cowboy, west, wild, danger, adventure, blur, abstract, group, team, posse, justice, law, police, marshall, western,

 

I’ve written three Westerns now. The first was Orphan Elixir, a novella about a demolitions expert who heads to California after the Civil War and does battle with a cannibal lurking in the countryside. That book was published by The Western Online Press LLC, after being serialized on their site in six monthly installments. They paid a maximum of five dollars per story installation at the time I solicited the piece, and they split the 30,000 word piece up into six monthly installments. In other words, I got $30 for 30,000 words, or approximately $1 per thousand words that I wrote. There are, it seems, more lucrative professions than that of an independent writer, like, for example, panhandling.

My next Western was a decent novel called War-Crossed Eyes, whose presentation was botched by a shitty cover that looked like it was shat out of Fabio Lanzoni’s ass during his tenure as a cover model for Harlequin romance novels. Don’t believe me? Google “War-Crossed Eyes,” by Joseph Hirsch. I hate to talk shit about a publisher, but goddamn!

My third (and best) Western is a little book called The Dove and the Crow. This book concerns a whore in the Old West who is blessed with an abundance of magical powers.

Orphan Elixir has been classified as a “weird Western” by readers, while War-Crossed Eyes has not been classified as anything by anyone, because no one other than me and the editor have read the goddamn thing (except maybe John Sheppard, thanks again, man).

I’m having a hard time classifying The Dove and the Crow. One oughtn’t to always feel compelled to categorize things, but I’m bored and I have a little time on my hands right now, so let me give the matter a bit of thought.

The Dove and the Crow is either a) a weird Western or b) an acid Western, or c) some combination thereof, or something else entirely, perhaps.

In brief, an acid Western was defined by critic Jonathan Rosenbaum as, “conjur[ing] up a crazed version of autodestructive (sic) white America at its most solipsistic, hankering after its own lost origins.”

I’m phenotypically white, and probably somewhat “autodestructive”; I mean, I have to stress the somewhat, since, while I did something dumb like volunteering for a war that didn’t have to be fought (which marks me as self-destructive), I’ve never had anything larger than a finger in my ass (and it was my own experimental probing at the age of sixteen). I mention this prurient detail not to debase myself or the reader, but to make the point that if one isn’t even willing to indulge in more than mildly masochistic tendencies, they’re probably not all that self-destructive.

I am somewhat solipsistic, because I’m a writer, and writing is navel-gazing, even when a writer observing the outside world, since that appraisal is being filtered through the writer’s own biases and sensibilities. I am definitely “crazed,” and so must concede that, since I personally bear the traits or hallmarks, in part or in toto, that Rosenbaum describes in defining the genre of the acid Western, my work will probably also reflect my personality, to an extent.

As for the weird Western, Wikipedia says, the “…Weird Western is a literary subgenre that combines elements of the Western with another literary genre, usually horror, occult, or fantasy.” Wikipedia is never wrong, and my book contains horror (skinning and scalping), the occult (a medicine man who summons beaver to devour his hated enemy, the white man), and fantasy (a goddess figure with the power to heal wounds at the merest snap of her fingers).

So…The Dove and the Crow: Weird Western or acid Western? I think Grandpa Simpson said it best, when the authorities asked him if his ranting was meant to stop them from pursuing Homer while the Simpson patriarch was off on a lark, or if, in fact, he was just senile. “A little bit from column a, and a little bit from column b.”

Readers who want a free copy of the book are invited to go to www.storycartel.com , or to contact the author directly at joehirs123@aol.com  Feel free to read the book and make up your own mind, about which genre it may or may not belong to, or the more prosaic matter of whether or not the book is any damn good, in your opinion.

Peace and soul, as Soul Train’s Don Cornelius once signed off…

don_cornelius1

P.S. To all potential female correspondents, no “pegging” requests, despite my former allusion to previous anal exploration. I am saving my rectal virginity for my fortieth birthday, which is still some years off. At that time, if you wish to anally wreck me, direct all correspondence to the aforementioned email address.

Signing off for real this time,

Joseph Sullivan Hirsch

Horses in Space by Joseph Hirsch

Editor’s note: Joseph Hirsch is the author of The Dove and the Crow. Read it, won’t you?

bravestarr3030

Awhile back I wrote a book about two boys who grew up in the 80s, and, while researching 80s ephemera for the novel, I kept asking myself, Wasn’t there a cartoon about some cowboys in space? I did a little bit of internet sleuthing, and it turns out, there was.

According to Wikipedia, the most reliable source not just on the internet, but in the entire universe, “BraveStarr is an American Space Western animated television series. The original episodes aired from September 1987 to February 1988 in syndication.” I didn’t even know there was such a subgenre as the “space Western,” but Wikipedia tends to broaden one’s horizons while simultaneously dumbing them down, sort of like the internet as a whole, and apparently the subgenre’s antecedents date back to the early Flash Gordon serials and also informed the décor of the Mos Eisley Cantina in Star Wars (note: the fact that I wrote the previous sentence with a straight face probably suggests I don’t know what I vagina is, but I can assure the reader that at one point, I was, in fact, sexually active).

I took the plunge and watched a full episode on YouTube. It was the pilot episode, so one has to make allowances and not judge too harshly, since any show needs some breathing room, before it is retooled and perfected. This episode in question dealt with Bravestarr, a native American lawman in outer space, and his faithful companion, 30-30, a talking anthropomorphic horse with opposable thumbs who stands upright on two legs, and reminded me quite a bit of the Zooey creatures in Jon Konrath’s brilliant, The Memory Hunter.

Bravestarr sort of looks like a cross between John Redcorn (the Native American who cuckolds Dale Gribble on the cartoon King of the Hill) and the character of Shep Proudfoot in Fargo, the Native American who belt-whips  Steve Buscemi’s ass after Buscemi tells him to “go smoke a fucking piece pipe.”

It’s hard to describe the show conceptually, but I’ll try. It’s basically a cross between Blade Runner and My Little Pony, or perhaps a mashup of Rainbow Brite and William Gibson’s seminal cyberpunk masterwork, Neuromancer, except for kids. The show’s heavy on the moralizing (the moral is delivered at the tail-end of each show, a la G.I. Joe ((kids, don’t do “spin,” a hallucinogenic drug featured on the show whose effects are akin to those of LSD))),and the whole affair is surprisingly multicultural for a Reagan-era relic.

Parts of the show I didn’t understand. For instance, why is the anthropomorphic, gun-toting horse known as “30-30” when that laser cannon he’s packing is obviously a smoothbore that couldn’t fire Winchester rifle rounds (30-30s) if Bravestarr’s life depended on it? I would also like to know more about the misnamed bipedal horse’s homeland, which is called…wait for it…the Equestroids.

All in all, I didn’t mind wasting eighteen minutes (no commercials on YouTube) watching this thing. In conclusion, let me add that, while this show was nowhere near as good as Sergio Leone’s sweeping hymn to the Western genre, Once Upon a Time in the West, I did actually enjoy watching Bravestarr more than, say, slamming my penis in a car door.