Blankety Blank, a Memoir of Vulgaria, has its roots in a more advanced version of our suburbia, but above ground this is one weird tree. At times it’s part Desperate Housewives–suburban drama, parties and wicked rumor mill– and other times it’s dark and brutal commentary, or complete bizzarro-fueled randomness.

Mr. van Trout seems to hate his son, barely tolerates his wife, his daughter is quite possibly a sex fiend, but he sure does love his silo. Except that his fake smiling, core rotten neighborhood, Quiggle Estates, is playing host to Mr. Blankety Blank, a serial killer. Some of the neighborhood’s occupants are quite influenced by the direct effect of death on their lives. Others, it seems, must be dragged kicking and screaming into a new mentality.

This is what the world would be if all the walls of nicety, and those between thought and action, were removed. A book like this can literally drown the reader in random-sounding detail and must be read as a dream is experienced, accepting rules of reality, the breaking thereof and the outright mutilation of reality as they come. Definitely not a book for everyone, Blankety Blank does have its moments, at times reading like Terry Pratchett does bizarro/science fiction/history.