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Name: Martyn Book Rating: ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
"When viewed from the shaft, Ted Rizzson’s uninspiring penchant for mewing was a meaningless and wasteful edging streak, but he alone harboured the unenviable secret of a potentially catastrophic gyatt for all the inhabitants of Planet Earth. Drawn together by a mutual fondness for skibidi toilet and jelqing, Ted and Jock Rizz goon about the future of mankind from the relative comfort of an everlasting nipple.” That’s what Short Lee has chosen as his excerpt to promote his hit book from August 2022; The Oldest Soak. Also known as The Ancient Moist, The Oldest Soggy, and even The Sog, The Oldest Soak is a book I have pondered since that unfortunate day of release. Every. Single. Day. What can you say about a book like this? Even Mickie doesn’t have a clue what Lee is on about, so what should us (his dear audience) feel? In truth, as Lil Kee once expertly stated… I be feeling empty. I couldn’t find the door, but then I found the Kee. In this sense, the door would be the overarching narrative of the oldest soak; I was lost, confused and outwardly bitter towards its narrative. However, I then found the Kee; the Kee being how this book made me feel, which was warm, cuddly, even rather zesty if you would pardon my boldness. The emptiness comes from the realisation that I will never find a book like this again; I will never, in my lifetime, experience such a soggy-inspired linguistic mastery of gravy riddled literature. In truth, only a few things in life have made me feel like this; namely: Lil Kee’s mixtape Mixed Emotions; L1L’s sequel to his critically acclaimed masterpiece ‘Goated’, titled ‘Bedtime’ and the concept of submersing myself in abject solitude, surrounded by tubs and tubs of that heavenly gravy. Thank you Lee, you are the modern day Shakespeare. I am sorry that you are short. To help you understand this review as constructive criticism, I rewrote it in your common dialect: Ted Rizzson mew like cat, but big secret can doom Earth. Ted and Jock Rizz like skibidi toilet and jelqing, talk about mankind from comfy nipple. Short Lee's book, The Oldest Soak, confusing but pondered daily. Mickie clueless, how feel? Lil Kee said: "I be feeling empty." Lost in book's story, then found warmth. Book unique, like Lil Kee's mixtape and solitude in tubs.
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Lee shorts is a masterful apprentice in the art of literature. His aura is +1000, he exudes rizz, and has a phenomenal gyatt. I loved the soggiest moist, and would like to exude my essence all over the page in the wake of a ghastly gravy. Lee is a sigma, through and through. I am a happy gooner, and will mog until I jelq.
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This book is a repugnant, ghastly mess of linguistic slosh. I violently erupted meaty, burning bile whilst reading through these 'weird' tales. Lee is a terrible author.
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I decided to try out the oldest soak on a whim, as a dare by a friend. It turned out to be the greatest adventure of my life. Lee's Shorts clear linguistic mastery castrates the notion that the soak, itself, is very old... perhaps, one could argue, even the oldest. I honestly loved this beautiful journey of grammatical and creative architecture. Lee's Shorts is a mastermind, a vessel of beautiful creativity, that I wish could spill over me in an excruciating, awesome wave. I wish Lee's Shorts could lift me up like a new-born baby, allowing me to be born aloft, like a feather, ready to take on the world with him as my Father. I love you, Lee, thank you for this.
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Joshua 'Blimp' Heggerington
The Oldest Soak is the newest entry in Lee Short's Shorts short (lol) and rather disastrous career. There is a clear, distinct difference between the lexis chosen to incorporate in descriptive scenes as compared to speech, and I've only read the sample (which was hard enough). Reading the novel turned my formerly solid stools into a thin and unpleasant gravy. This quote from the book perfectly sums up my feelings: "Mikie, what the fuck are you talking about?" The book is an ill, rancid mess, but is beautiful and quite erotic in some descriptions at some scenes. I often found myself reminiscing about my 7 failed marriages whilst reading about big Jim (my husbands were also of the large persuasion). Whilst reading i was certain the book was a 1-star disaster. But, after, in the wake of my gravy, I have learned better. The Oldest Soggy is a masterpiece. I would recommend anyone reading to live alone to better immerse themself in the abject solitude required to envision such a stew of cerebral nightmares. Orgasmic.
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High above the cold, mulberry waves of the North Sea, I secluded in my windy folly, far from the prying eyes of the general public and their I interfering ways. Being blessed of considerable financial stature, I was able to pursue the life of a recluse, such as my dark past had sadly dictated. As each desolate morning shone its unwelcome beam through my windows, ushering in another day filled with untapped potential and opportunity for glory, so did my face wrinkle and my spine bow under the unbearable burden of guilt that had settled on my bony shoulders. So great was my single crime that its lament had driven me insane, the black tumour of anticipated penance chomping away at my limited vitality until what remained was an imitation of man. The crooked, wounded figure that limped daily from room to room to
sustain its miserable existence held a zest comparable to that of the rotten sea lion carcass that bounced upon the frothy waves, butting against the rocks on the day I threw Scott’s accursed pink kidney from my kitchen window. Wholly undeserving of the sinister twist of fate that befell him, was Scott. A gentle, smiling ox of a man, he’d ne’er a salty word for anyone. With colossal beef shoulders and a huge red beard as though all of autumn had clustered about 3 his chin, he projected a formidable persona, yet his tiny eyes betrayed a glad soul that would share his last bean with no consideration of reward or recompense. So what drove me to such dismal lunacy as to conspire to remove his kidney? Across the weeks and months since that deeply regretful and irrevocable evening that very question has tormented me like an awful rat, nibbling at the ragged shreds of my sanity with infected mandibles. In all honesty, that night I was possessed of an unusually overwhelming compulsion, during which my gluttonous yearning for scientific excellence held dominance over all my ethics and principles. The covert and unlawful procurement of one of Scott’s kidneys was simply an experiment to clarify whether it could be done, and results were partially successful. For years an aspiring human biologist, I won’t deny I considered the eccentric image of a renegade surgeon to be medicine’s answer to rock and roll stardom, and studied fastidiously, far beyond the capabilities of my fellow medics. Much to the chagrin of my industriously handicapped tutors, I persisted in attempting to facilitate a mode of experience within the current curriculum, which I found to be most tedious and drawn-out affair. Despite my avaricious efforts, the scholastic body remained defiant in the face of my enthusiasm, and so my learnings were incurred at a snail’s pace. Astonishing that even in this modern age, individual excellence was discouraged in favour of a tightly
controllable, uniform collective.
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Vibin' in the ocean, off the purple potion. The only words my lips would dareth quiver to speak as I kneeled, bewildered, before my God, Mr Lee Short. The Ancient Moist is a masterpiece.
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The Oldest Soak is the first entry in Lee Shorts potentially long and illustrious career, and is an imperfect masterpiece. Whilst reading this stew of cerebral nightmares, I was faced with what can only have been described as gibberish; an ill-advised excuse to incorporate such a strange and complex amount of lexis to pass off as a ‘weird tale’. Reading this for the first time, I was sure Lee had open a dictionary and was comically writing down every word he saw that would benefit an unsatisfactory response. I mean, in the very first sentence alone, Lee fails to incorporate correct grammar, ‘I interfering ways’- are you kidding me Lee? But, after a while, I began to have visions, cerebral nightmares if you will; nightmares which turned my formerly solid stools into a thin and unpleasant gravy. I began to see these weird tales as the cerebral nightmares Lee envisioned in his abject solitude- I was transfixed! Although it’s clear Lee can’t formulate a sentence that actually makes sense to save his life, I’m sure the oldest soak is a misunderstood masterpiece, and I can’t wait to read the next instalment.
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Very good.
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Yeah, it’s alright I guess!
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I was surprised, awe-struck, gobsmacked (you could say) when I saw the oldest soak advertised one fateful morn. I immediately went and ordered myself a copy. A slew of disappointments then overcame my being, as if this soak (the oldest) was some kind of foul curse. My first copy of the book was smeared with fecal matter, the next was thrown through my window by the delivery man, shredding the contents. More books arrived and more foul curses were bestowed upon me. Finally (hurrah) an unsodden delivery was given to me.
The wait was definitely worth it. The book is smeared with metaphors and linguistic mastery that is sure to titillate any reader who has the pleasure of enjoying it. My life has been changed by this novel of pure skill and I would recommend it to anyone who is brave enough to endure these cerebral nightmares.
Lee, thank you sincerely.
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I am Solaire of Astora, an adherent to the Lord of Sunlight.
Now that I am Undead, I have come to this great land, the birthplace of Lord Gwyn, to seek my very own sun! We are amidst strange beings, in a strange land.
The flow of time itself is convoluted; with heroes' centuries-old phasing in and out.
The very fabric wavers and relations shift and obscure.
There's no telling how much longer your world and mine will remain in contact.
But, use this, to summon one another as spirits, cross the gaps between the worlds, and engage in jolly cooperation!
