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Book descriptionI’m almost ashamed to comment on Young Adult books; I’m afraid that anyone stumbling across this will suspect that I play with action figures, wank it to anime, and collect the free trinkets from cereal boxes, when in reality I only partake in one of these three unsavory acts. However, I also know that 99% of the posts in regards to young adult works published prior to 2001 will be along the lines of “I read this when I was a kid and it kicked my ass! I should dig through that mountain of decaying issues of Hustler/Juggs/Omni and re-read it sometime!” I hope that I can potentially provide the impetus for you to actually go read it, by giving you some idea what the book happens to be about, why I personally liked it, and rapping some absolute gibberish which you are better off ignoring, all with the with the goal of convincing you that not only is Interstellar Pig” worth your time, but that playing with action figures should be regarded as a sign of manliness. Just to make sure I’m covering all the bases, I did read this back in my youth (and yes, it did thoroughly kick my ass), but aside from the general plot, this story taught me several things I thought were cool; the meaning of the word ersatz, it introduced me to the practice of keelhauling (which made such a deep impression that to this very day, every time I witness a transgression while aboard any form of water-bound conveyance, I drunkenly blurt вЂkeelhaul that scurvy scalawag!’), symbiotic relationships were first explained to me through the misfortune of poor Luap and his slug-tongue Zshoozsh, and I also established that my IRSC is probably disastrously high (ranking alongside that of the hilarious and carnivorous lichen). If you’re already on goodreads searching for book reviews from the many fine reviewers out there, I’m assuming this would all be remedial for you; but I would certainly suggest that you keep this book mind for when you start introducing your own little brood to the wonders of reading. I’d also strongly recommend this to any gamers. While I’ve never experienced the joy of getting immersed in the world of role-playing (short of the ordinary nurse/patient, hooker/john, Ike/Tina, Santa/kid-wishing-for-a-Red-Ryder BB Gun type stuff that doesn’t require dice or the need to keep stringent record of hit points), it seems that author William Sleator certainly spent his fair share of days in the trenches. Even without RPGs, I get very involved in any game I do play, or make a game of anything I’m doing. While throwing darts I’m not particularly concerned with the score, I’m busy pretending that the double-bull is actually the one component of the opponent’s artificial heart susceptible to attack, and only by pegging that sumbitch can I effectively eliminate them from this year’s round of DeathDarts. Should I go a little retro and hunker down for a game of Clue, I’m not foolishly dashing to the billiard room to discover what nefarious ends the venerable Colonel Mustard might have found for the rope, I’m the pervert lurking in the filthy, darkened secret passageway that connects the lounge to the conservatory, fondling myself vigorously while peeking out to see what creative uses that sultry minx Ms. Scarlet has found for the candlestick while draped naked across the top of the Steinway, usually leaving behind a small specimen of evidence of my own to an insidious crime nobody is going to bother investigating amidst all the madness at hand. When my old man would throw me out the door and make it plain I wasn’t welcome back in until the lawn was properly mowed, I knew this wasn’t merely an exercise in property upkeep, I was Bombardier Chris, being sent out on another reconnaissance sortie over North Viet Nam with my B-57 crew, which quickly becomes wrought with peril, and each swath of grass I cut is actually the deforestation caused by my merciless carpet-bombing, until, at long last, we receive word from Admiral Ackbar that it’s time to return to base and resume smoking dope through a rifle barrel. Growing concerns from the neighbors led to my folks prohibiting me from wearing the flak jacket while operating the trusty old Toro, but we settled on letting me keep the aviator goggles on, perhaps the only successful compromise in family history. For this behavior, I lay the blame entirely on William Sleator’s doorstep, and whoever the hell wrote the screenplay for The Last Starfighter. In these yarns, one is rewarded for their gaming expertise with a chance to become the savior of the human race if not the collective freedom of a galaxy by untwitting an armada of giant, W-shaped spacecraft piloted by betentacled badasses, but in real life, your unparalleled proficiency at gaming is merely indicative of your constant and fervid jack-off sessions, the lack of significant companionship in your life, and hours spent at home during peak partying time while you sit home huffing gas playing Gurps. This is supposed to be a compliment of the highest order, even if I’m not effectively getting that message across. I cannot possibly repay Mr. Sleator in this lifetime for both entertaining me fully with “Interstellar Pig” and for helping me realize that if you look at every little nuisance in life as a game, it all works out pretty well in the end. The boss needs me to get some shit from headquarters in Wurzburg to the Chicago office; there I am contacting Lufthansa, playing “Sneak the Bomb on Prototype German Aircraft”. The girlfriend calls giving me short notice that her mother is coming over; it’s time for a quick session of “Hide The Contraband (And Probably the Drudwyn Works, Too)”. Wow, I’m just realizing that will probably be a song title on an emo album in the next five years. There you go, Taking Back Sunday, I’ve saved you five minutes. Resume plugging groupies at your leisure. “Interstellar Pig” is the story of Barney, a self-proclaimed вЂwhiz’ at games (and evidenced by his pasty white coloring from spending many a night in his dungeon-like basement) who is vacationing with his parents on a private beach. His folks are pompous asses with absolutely no regard for the fact Barney doesn’t like the beach, and he’d rather be rolling a 20-sided die to determine if the wood-nymph/dryad he just encountered in the “Forbidden Forest” will acquiesce to his request for a blowjob. So, while his folks hobnob with the social elite of the area, Barney is left to his own devices, which is pretty much limited to reading so sci-fi novels while avoiding the sun’s wicked rays, and dwelling on an eerie story concerning the ill-fated former owner of the house they are currently occupying, which the groundskeeper felt it was imperative to relate to an impressionable kid. The story in a nutshell: about 100 years ago the house was owned by a respected seaman known as Captain Latham, whose downfall began when he rescued a shipwrecked sailor. The sailor was a truly unique individual, speaking a language none of the world-traveling crew was familiar with, and while recuperating, the unfortunate wretch is iced by the Captain’s brother. Per the ship’s inflexible charter, the brother gets a brief introduction to the pageantry of keelhauling and winds up locked in the house, insane, clawing at the walls. Then unexpected neighbors arrive, three of them; two total studs and a fine chick (Manny, Joe, and Zena), all apparently in their early twenties. Barney, who is probably on the path to blindness with all the time on his hands to pound his pud, can’t help but become ecstatic when they seemingly want to hang out with him, though he quickly realizes that they simply using him as a tool to assist in some sort of treasure hunt. This disparaging fact isn’t making Zena’s rack any smaller, so Barney is still content to tag along. Eventually, the neighbors shed some light on what exactly it is they do behind closed doors; they play a board game called Interstellar Pig, perhaps one of the coolest things conceived. The point of the game is to scour a few planets scattered about the galaxy and combat all manner of their indigenous monstrosities in order to possess an ugly-ass and seemingly useless relic know only as The Piggy when the allotted time runs out. The Piggy only serves one purpose, it grants the owner and his planet immunity from being completely destroyed when the game time finally runs down to zero. During the four-player games of Pig, Zena always ends up in the role of Zulma, a menacing arachnid creature, Joe is always Jrlb, a beast which looks like the expected result had Jeff Goldblum ended up with a swordfish in the matter-transfer device from вЂThe Fly’, and Manny is always Moyna, at which time he changes gender and is described kindly as an “octopuslike gas bag creature”. Barney gets to assume the role of a colony of flesh-eating lichen in one game, and a lizard-man named Luap in another, both creatures are considered borderline imbecilic by their character attribute as IRSC (IQ, generally) although Luap has a relationship with a slug living in his mouth, and the slug has the best IRSC of any species in the game, even if it lacks manners. Perhaps my favorite part of the book is Barney playing as Luap, trying to feed the slug to boost his powers of reasoning, but the slug decides to talk trash about his sloppy eating manners and exclaim “Hey, slow it down, you retard!” The next time Barney sits down to play, he’s breathless when he draws the “Barney – Homo Sapiens” character card. Good thinking kid, you’ve drawn us all into the game which will almost inevitably end with planetary destruction thanks to your lust for a tarnished talisman shaped like a pig. The story is predictable, fun, and very short-lived; it’s like shotgunning a beer. 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