Wild Fucks Flying Dackward

Huh? Come again.
Sure. Have you heard of Fierce Invalids Home From Hot Climates?
Or, Even Cowgirls Get The Blues? Half Asleep in Frog Pajamas?
No? Nada?
Okay then. Surely, you would have heard of Wild Ducks Flying Backward? In that case, you will get every word of this homage to Tom Robbins. His writng. His chutzpah. His characters. His character. It's all here. Abbreviated; like a nympho dwarf on cocaine.
Slurp.

My unbridled admiration, if not love and respect both (but then, what else is admiration, the old fashioned way that is?) for some people worry many.
Let it.

Coming to the point, one such person is Tom Robbins. There will be loads about him here. Motherloads, actually. Strewn about like condoms in a dandiya festival. This is the first of many, many on Thomas Eugene Robbins. American author, supposedly.
Born in ’36, that maketh Tom around 81 years of age. He doesn’t look it. He doesn’t talk it either. In fact, if you knew him (through his words, at the very least), you would think here is one giant truck full of bubbling viagra poised with all but one wheel raised on the edge of a deep, bottomless hole filled with limp biscuits praying for priapic redemption.

Phew! People are like you, Tom.
His cowgirls may get the blues and his wild ducks may fly backward, his perfume may get the jitterbug and his B may be for beer. But he is for real. As real as a wart on a porcupine. As real as a pack of Camel smokes inside a pyramid. Certainly as real as our debased imagination will allow him to be. He may be living the life of a humping hermit in his villa incognito, but he has exploded on our collective consciousness with continuing certainty.
Tom’s pen is a heat seeking missile. His typewriter is a machine gun’s navel. His words are like prayers, sent up on pot smoke to a leering Pan, the Goat god. Constructed upon the flimsy foibles of human life, Tom’s bombs are designed to blow jobs into dribbling smithereens and routine into itsy bitsy titsy fragments. His perspective is like acid rain, eating into eaten into termites of tradition and choreographed bullshit. His verbs are like smiling tongs, always eager to help out by pulling any and all sticks out of our minds’ asses.

And his nouns. Ah, his nouns. Bonanza Jellybean, Switters, John Paul Ziller, Marx Marvelous, Larry Diamond, Gwen Mati, Andre the monkey who is a born again Christian and Leigh-Cheri the princess. They are all out to get you, if you only just let them. If you only just drop your calcium coated cocoon and listen to their music. If you only just.