Culled together lovingly from all of Jimmy's stuff I could find on the www, this is the book you'll want to have close at hand when the wifi is down, or you are.
Restroom Zen
Paperback, 64 pages, B&W
€10,- ≈ $13,50, includes postage + stickers.
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Excerpt (from Rhetorical Rock Questions Answered):
Q: Do you know where you are?
A: Yes, we are in the jungle, which you quickly answered for us before we could say “um, we’re in the jungle, and we’re gonna die…” The thing is, Axl, I am not in the jungle, but watching MTV’s Top Twenty Countdown circa 1988 with a bag of Cheetos, sucking down the teat of each orange finger in some unresolved Freudian oral stage. It may be worth mentioning that my pants are off; or rather, my 12-year-old genitals have been freely excised into my parents’ “master bedroom,” for the purposes of attending to the preceding video made by one of your peers/competitors, in which a lovely Midwestern girl, unhappy with the meatloaf and finger-dumb boys at home, moved to the jungle and became a stripper — so this jungle motif of yours is a little hackneyed, I guess. Do you know where you are, Axl? You are inside my parents’ Sony TV, embedded in the bands with which your semblance is conveyed, looking like a pissed off version of Carrot Top. You are also going to die.
Q: Do you know where you are?
A: Yes, we are in the jungle, which you quickly answered for us before we could say “um, we’re in the jungle, and we’re gonna die…” The thing is, Axl, I am not in the jungle, but watching MTV’s Top Twenty Countdown circa 1988 with a bag of Cheetos, sucking down the teat of each orange finger in some unresolved Freudian oral stage. It may be worth mentioning that my pants are off; or rather, my 12-year-old genitals have been freely excised into my parents’ “master bedroom,” for the purposes of attending to the preceding video made by one of your peers/competitors, in which a lovely Midwestern girl, unhappy with the meatloaf and finger-dumb boys at home, moved to the jungle and became a stripper — so this jungle motif of yours is a little hackneyed, I guess. Do you know where you are, Axl? You are inside my parents’ Sony TV, embedded in the bands with which your semblance is conveyed, looking like a pissed off version of Carrot Top. You are also going to die.
