The Very Virile Viking, Part II

Unabashed nerd that I am, nothing turns me on more than a good old-fashioned logic puzzle. Mental masturbation often simultaneously stimulates my sub-abdominal muscles to the point where by the time I’ve figured out the right algorithm to apply to a recursive function, I find myself unwittingly dry humping my desk.

So when I realized my twat was the same consistency as sandpaper midway through part two of The Very Virile Viking, I had to ask myself: How did the novel that I dubbed the Holy Grail of Cliterature suddenly induce early-onset menopause?

I knew it couldn’t simply be blamed on the dreaded curse that accompanies most sequels. After all, any book based on the premise of a time-travelling Viking with ten children who can’t fuck because of a misinformed celibacy vow should merit a couple more chortles out of my tired, weed-infused consciousness.

Then it dawned on me that the reason this book causes symptoms of Sjögren's syndrome is because it’s founded on a series of paradoxes. And if mental challenges are my personal poppers, then logic loops—with their endless ability to confound without delivering answers—are like (in the Viking’s own words) “pouring cold water on a hot faggot.”

Paradox #1: Magnus Ericsson, the Viking, is obsessed with his ugly ears. Because the writer loves putting her characters’ inner dialogues in italics, we’re treated to a deluge of his neuroses every few pages. Oh, for the love of Frey! Are those excessively big ears on the mite?, etc. This is a paradox for obvious reasons. Romantic heroes should never be worrying about the excessive build-up of wax in their orifices.

Paradox #2: Angela, who Magnus nicknames “Destiny,” goes from a man-eating vixen who insists she doesn’t care about starting a family to holding up her ovaries on a platter and begging for impregnation within days. OK, so maybe that isn’t as much of a “paradox” as plain old selling out, but here’s the kicker: although she’s on the pill AND they use “extremely thin sheaths over man parts called cone-domes,” she somehow manages to spawn a fetus by the epilogue. Did she pull that stunt where if a guy threatens to leave, you poke holes into all his condoms with a needle so that it’s all like whoopsies-wanna-get-married? Something weird is going on here.

Paradox #3: If you read last week’s review, then you already know that the reason Magnus can’t fuck Angela until more than midway through the novel is because he time travelled from 999 A.D. and doesn’t know about birth control. So when he finally figures it out (I think his 13-year-old son clues him in), you’d expect the most mind-blowing bonking to ensue after all that anticipation. Wrong. His opening line, when he accosts Angela in the shower, is “Would you like to see me plow?” to which she replies, “And how do you intend to do that smoothin’ thang, plowboy?” The agricultural metaphor doesn’t end there. Magnus then soaps up and begins to “rub it into her rough terrain. Hill and dale got equal attention. Rosy pebbles. Boulders. Limbs. Even ‘grassy’ areas.” I guess I should have known this was coming when he referred to them as “stallion and mare” in the first half. But still, how can a build-up so good lead to a climax scene that’s literally written as: “In, out, in, out, in, out, inoutinoutinout, in, out, in, out, in, out, inoutinoutinout, IIIINNNNN,OOOUUTT! ‘Oh… my… God!’ ‘Oh… holy… Thor!’ Angela screamed. Magnus howled."

Rating: 1 dildo. This week, I learned a valuable life lesson: Reading a romance novel is exactly like snorting ecstasy. It’s best done in small quantities and as quickly as possible. Dragging it out only intensifies the pain. That, or you can just cram it up your ass and hope for the best.

Previously - The Very Virile Viking, Part I