C H R I S T I A N B Ö K

Christian Bök's book is shit. To start it is a task, to scan it is a strain. Its narration is catatonic, it's as basic as ABC. its too assonant, its contains crass connotations in its brackish bars. It has no artistic basis to anchor it, in short, it stinks. Tsk, tsk. Is it ironic? Satiric, or sarcastic? No, its irritation is intrinsic. This book is a bionic horror, a robotic abstraction: constant constraints constrict its inconsonant consonants into chaotic contortions. This strains its scant scansions. Bök, that contrarian, insists on this- Bok is so into constraints, I think it's a sick kink. Ick! A kibosh on it. This book has no citations, it ranks on no charts, it's not canon. It isn't so-so; it is so, so, so so-so. This is a non-book, an anti-book. I snort at it. That as it is, Bök can't not scratch his ink nib: it's an inborn kink, a sick itch to scratch, a cocainist's scab. His rank inkhorn is a narcotic habit as chronic as cannabis, tobacco, or crack. Not that it's a knack- oh no. Bök is no artist. Bök's not a Titian, a Cassatt, a Corot or a Bosch- shit, Bök's no Bob Ross. Bok's book is to art as an arthritic cockroach is to a rhino; as a rat's hiss is to Sinatra's croon; as Christian rock is to a Bach cantata: It's a stark contrast. Bök is a hack, a con artist, a schnook. To train Bök to concoct a book that's not trash is to train a baboon to cook borscht. So, I chant it: Toss this book in a bin! Roast it on a stick! Hiss, or boo at it! Crank it into thin carbon bits! Knit it into a satin boa! Stick it in a rabbit's ass! Bark at it! Bonk a banana on it! (or a carrot.) Cast it into Tarnation! Shoot at it: rat-a-tat-tat! Cart it into a hot cocoa bath (so as to stain it!) Boot it back to Toronto! Boot Bök (a Torontonian) back to Toronto too! (...Oh, Bök is a 'bioartist' too? Bioart is NOT art.) Hint, hint: Bök's short stint in books is soon to hit a rock. (Think: Titanic.) I insist it is, so bank on it. So, I chant it: Ciao, Christian! Bonsoir! Ta-ta! Thanks a ton (not!) Oh. Oh no. Oh no, no, no. NOOOOO!!! Bök's book- it's an instant hit?! It can't- it is. Bök's book stocks bookracks in book chains across nations: China, Haiti, Bosnia, Croatia, Costa Rica... Arabic too; Iran, Bahrain... on to Antarctica! Cancun to Cairo, Nairobi to Osaka, Boston to Bora Bora: it's hot shit. This book has kickbacks, too: it's a boon to Bök's bankbook, a boost to his cash stash, a coin in his coin sack: in short, Bök has stacks on stacks. Hot to trot, Bök hobnobs boss hochos, boasts to snobbish critics, or chitchats to bookish brainiacs at "Christian Bök-a-Thons". Bök, in hot rotation as an orator, snacks on artisan croissants or raisin bonbons in chic bistros, as rakish hosts toast chianti in his honor. Hoorah! Bök's stock soars. That kiss-ass! Bok's orations attract 'Bok-ian' cohorts: brash book bros hoot, chicks coo or toss bras, snatch at his crotch. That hotshot! Bök is a rockstar, an icon. Brats on TikTok stan Bök's book as 'not basic'. Hot chicks in bikinis coo, toss bras or ask Bok to ink his Hancock across tan boobskin. Ick! Bok starts 'Bok Inc.'; at no cost, Bok Inc. concocts kitsch knickknacks: Bok hats, Bok socks, Bok bric-a-brac. Bök is so rich, ABC casts Bök as a co-host on 'Shark Tank' (this boots Barbara Corcoran). As an actor, Bok stars in Tarantino's horror-action-noir hit "Casino Broncos"; Bok nabs an Oscar. (Chris Rock hosts). This irks his costar, Oscar Isaac. At a historic coronation, Britain anoints Bök (not British) "Sir Bök". This hoists Bök to an iconic strata, akin to Saint Nick, Christ, or Sinatra. Bök is a rich aristocratic rockstar actor? Oh, I abhor this- I abhor it so! I soak in hot rancor. Bök, that traitor, has no tact. To cast his anachronistic caca in ink is an arrant sin. Sans Bok, this nation is a Christian bastion. As is, it's on track to tank. Bok's book is an incitation to riot- As baboonish hicks scan his Rorshachian ink, his book stirs racist associations- it tricks batshit cranks in tin hats to act on anarchic antics. I shirk to think it: Soon, kooks ransack train stations, accost hobos in rain-torn shacks, toss bricks at arabs, harass asians chicks, torch Shintoist toriis, kick skittish cats into trashcans, or chant 'na-na-na-na boo-boo' at sick tots in casts. It isn't so in this instant, that as it is, can I sit back as Bok sinks this nation into coast to coast chaos? Shit no! I scoot into a booth at Casa Bonita. Christ, I thirst to ban this book I snack on ricotta-nacho tacos as I knock back a horchata-scotch shot. Soon, I concoct a 'Christian Bok' acrostic: Bank on Kabobs? Ok, this acrostic isn't cast in iron. That as it is, I think Christian Bök is an anti-Christ, Satan's son, or both. I scan archaic rabbinic books, sanskrit arcana. Korans, torahs, corinthians: hook or crook, I can't shirk this task! Rhinos... bonobos... cockatoos... bison... cats? Oh, that's Noah's ark. OK, this is it. A bit on satan: Satan, AKA: Shaitan... Astaroth... Tchort... Bök... ... ...BOK?????????? Oh. Oh no. Oh no, no, no. Not this!!! Christian Bok is satan's incarnation? So it is - Christian ain't so Christian. Oh, "Bank on kabobs"- I think ISIS is in cahoots, to boot! This is a crisis- an ISIS crisis! I knock back a ninth shot. That S.O.B.! I can't sanction this, not a bit. So, I hatch an assassination tactic. In a cinch, I obtain a Nissan hatchback. I crank ABBA's hit 'SOS', so as to soak in its sonorant hooks. I sit carsick in transit as I shoot across Cincinnati, Saskatoon, San Antonio, Santa Ana, Boston, Ithaca (as an assassin, I can't risk a short track, so I crisscross.) In Akron, Ohio I hit a raccoon and crash into a barn. Car can't start, so I hitch to a train (choo, choo!), hook to a boat (toot, toot!), sit in a chariot (trot, trot!), ski on skis (ski, ski!), nab a tractor (corn, corn!)... on to Toronto! In Toronto, at a tiki bar, I ask Toronto's inhabitants aboot Bök. I obtain corroboration that Bök is in his cabin. It's a bit north, so I catch a cab (honk, honk). "To Bök's cabin, sir! Thanks!" So, this is it. Bok's cabin. Knock? I think not. "IT IS I!" I crash into his cabin; bricks crack into bits. Christian Bök sits in a chair, in a cotton shirt, ascot, khaki shorts (so chic!). "THIS AIN'T KANSAS, TOTO!" I roar. In an instant, I attack. I stab a shank into his back- his ribs crack, his torso is torn to torsions. Bök is a shish kabob- no, a shish ka-Bök! I stick scissors into his incisors in an inartistic incision, staccato. His throat's intact, so I thrash at it. I stick a tack an inch into his iris. I skin his thin shins. I bash in his brains, so as to bask in his brain bits. Christian Bök croaks- this ain't a ribbit. Tick, tock, tick, tock… I sit in shock, in a static stasis. Thick stains taint Christian's shirt a sick tint (this ain't Sriracha or Tabasco.) Abrasions that shan't scar crisscross his skin. His aorta is torn to ribbons- no bacitracin, niacin or antibiotics can assist a boo-boo as harsh as that. Is this a trick? I think not. Horror sinks in. I catch a sob. "Oh, Christian- I cannot contain it!" Inhibition shrinks. Attraction throbs. I kiss Christian- his hair, his socks, his crotch. It's so taboo, I can't not. I broach his shorts, so as to stick it in. AAHHH! This is so hot! It's carthartic: I 'boink' Christian Bok. Oh, this is a shock, is it? Boo-hoo. Bash in his brains, ha ha, that's OK. Hot cock-ass carcass action, not into it? I think that's racist. As a book critic, I insist that this is artistic. Sick as this is, I can't attain tantric satiation. I thirst to inhabit Christian Bök, to soak in Christian Bok... to absorb Christian Bök. So, I hack at his cock in an inartistic castration. (I sorta botch it, tbh). I toss it in a nonstick crock; I cook it in crisco. I toss in his brain bits too. As this chars, I stir in onion stock, cornstarch, tahini, ranch... It cooks into a brackish broth (think: risotto, that has a cock in it). It's OK on toast. (I coin this act: "Aristocrats.") OK. This is TOO chaotic. Christian Bök isn't hot, it's a sin to think so. Nosh on his brains? Ick, no thanks. Knock boots? Not into it. Bök is a carcass, that's that. I can't backtrack, nor can I risk inaction- Toronto's not an oasis, it shan't harbor a crook. So, on an arsonistic kick, I torch his cabin. As it roasts, I sit criss-cross in a cabana. Hot ash soars into orbit; it coats a birch branch. Bök's cabin contorts into soot. Christian Bök is toast. I sob. A notion took root, I think, at that cabin. A transition. As I think back on that occasion, I ask: is assassination OK? No. It's not OK. Assassination has a cost: it is a boorish, narcissistic act, not an act to boast on. I ain't a saint; I sank to act on a barbaric instinct. I took a torch to a tacit oath, I shat on a sacrosanct contract. No brain acrobatics can sooth this , not an iota. So. No sass, snark, or schtick: assassination is a no-no, OK? Arson too. That's it. Thanks. -Brian Schitko, Book Critic