Read More From MOBY DICKHEAD: OR THE WHITE ZOMBIE WHALE
EXHILARATING! A PARODY OF GINORMOUS PROPORTIONS! The adventures of Fishpail aboard the randy sailing vessel P-God, commanded by a fellow called Captain Ascab, are heretofore set down as never before as the crew chases the big, fat, stinky, blubbery, white zombie whale that bit off Ascab's leg—and still hungers for his brain. Rated T.I., for Totally Immature
When I was laid off for a period of months, I worked on five novels while job hunting. I confess I never wanted to read MOBY DICK: OR THE WHITE WHALE until I wanted to rewrite it. It's one of the five novels I worked on. An American classic. And like Pride and Prejudice with Zombies, ripe for zombification. I ended up reading it maybe four times as I polished it. And I'm still sane. Imagine. It's the entire Melville classic with a splash of Jameson added to each chapter. Not to mention it includes zombie hermit crabs and pirates in thongs and whaling dominatrix boots. And a healthy smattering of profanity and urbandictionary.com slang. I think the 1800s needed some more of that, personally. And, I must say, the inclusion of a recipe for fish tacos in this edition makes it a far superior edition to Melville's original of 1851.
Call me Fishpail. Some years ago--never mind how long precisely--having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, not even the Jersey Shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately and methodically ripping the heads off cocksuckers--then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. The flame-thrower and grenade. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me, where they can pursue and annilihate undead whales, sharks, and croaking hermit crabs.