sadoo trashtalk

lets talk about quality  how ie do you know if sadoos bad or good  insane or mediocre  fact or fiction  false or true or all of the above  none  some of? glad you asked  we happen to have a review of sadoo by weal clown right here

 

weal clowns review of sadoo

sadoo da novel

sadoo da character

sadoo da whonym

sadoo da concept

sadoo da dream

sadoo da sadoo

 

There are books that are stultifyingly tedious. Others are unmitigatedly unintelligent. Some are comprehensively puerile, manifestly redundant, gargantuanly disordered, wastefully irrelevant. Sadoo is noteworthy only for not simply being one of these but all of them.

 

Nonsensically unpleasant, leaving one sweaty with mingled horror and confusion, derivative, a blob of paranoia and vanquished machismo and mansplaining, a gross and gristly wank of a book that oozes contempt for the very norms that enable the author to spew its wretchedness with an authoritarian sense of superiority, a shamelessly and artificially bland daydream, melodramatically inept, a bumbling twisting of language into incomprehensible meaninglessness, solipsistically overwrought, a flogging that will require months of blood transfusions, a grindingly sophomoric exercise in endless onanism, a constipation so dense and dull light seems to bend around it, solipstic and schizophrenic, impenetrable interminable selfindulgent crap, incompetent, defensive, offensive, astonishingly clueless, oblivious, selfabsorbed, unimportant, atrocious, middleschool logorrhea, cringeworthy, pathological, egregiously banal bloviation, a closed and claustrophic world, a mind drowned irrevocably in the everclear of itself, fulsome and unctuous, every stitch of nuance and humour surgically removed, without a shred of emotional engagement, wholly lacking plot, shape, setting, beginning, ending, middle, making the man without qualities look like Mister Attribute, the collapsed and untraceable author is sadly doing what’s already been done endlessly in the masturbatory of postmodernity.

 

Nothing hangs together. We wish we could say it was even calculatingly bad. Enjoying the luxury of living free from discrimination and domination, the Sadoo Consortia fabricate oppression to fictionalize a personal victimhood to pathetically simulate an impossible belonging, comfortable with vast swathes of humans being left to violence, poverty and abuse because ameliorating these evils would remove Sadoo’s opportunity to show its ugly and patent puerility which it pathetically mistakes for originality and brilliance.

 

It demonizes every institution and person who’s ever helped society or it, standing aloof and critical instead of constructively engaging with real people and real problems, committed to a god complex that’s fatuous, bilious, hypocritical, insensate. Claiming superior consciousness without seemingly conscious of its own unconsciousness, it mercilessly attacks everything to futilely hide its own inability to build bridges with anything but its own narcissism. Pretending to profundity and wisdom it instead churns unceasingly an imbecile shallowness, good only for one thing – an unbroken example of rank projection of the author’s immaturity, neuroses, psychoses and pervasive and unacknowledged mental illness.

 

Especially these days, who needs more of this?