Where an amateur attempts at divining somewhat passable insights.
It’s not often that a book can so unsettle me that I would dread to make myself a sandwich when past midnight, yet be a riot the next page, but John Dies at the End manages to do just that. Juggling humor and horror like it's the easiest thing in the world, Jason Pargin has put together an anything-goes, balls-to-the-wall comedy-horror not at all afraid to throw whatever batshit-craziness at you and see which part of it your suspension of disbelief is strong enough to handle, after which it proceeds to crank up said batshit-craziness a level or several more. The ultimate cure for reader's block, John Dies at the End commanded in four all-nighter sittings my complete attention with blonde-wigged spiders, testicle-punching minions, skin-burrowing flies, trans-dimensional conspiracies, evil doppelgangers, sentient televisions, penis-obssessed sidekicks, and Morgan Freeman. Yes, the book is mostly all over the damn place, and I was left scratching my head half the time at where it was going, if not at where it finally went, but the one thing John Dies at the End’s definitely not is dull.