Cannibal Nuns from Outer Space by Duncan P Bradshaw – Book Review

Duncan P. Bradshaw’s Cannibal Nuns from Outer Space is exactly what the title suggests and so much more. Yes, it’s a pastiche of both the demonic possession and nunsploitation genres, but it’s also unlike anything you’ve ever found in book form in the past.

As he did with the charmingly cheeky killer vacuum novella Mr. Sucky, Bradshaw takes his love of speculative fiction and fringe cinema to a hitherto unexplored place. ‘Cannibal Nuns’ opens like you’re watching a DVD, replete with a piracy warning, featuring a fistful of faux “trailers” for other stories whose general plots are almost as mental as the plot of the novel itself.

It’s hard to discuss this book without giving up the ghost and I’ve never been one to spoil endearingly cheap thrills for the freaks who read our rag. So, with that in mind, I’ll summarize the experience of digesting this jubilant jaunt through myriad hells thusly: The web-fingered Bolo-Bolo is drawn so brilliantly and abominably that it emerges as a creature even more hideous to imagine than the nuns with “chest-mouths.”

To put it another way, Duncan P. Bradshaw is a writer afflicted with a particularly acute illness of the mind and we’re all the richer for it. Catch the infection here and develop a bad habit here.

Sorry ‘Bout That: Humor in the Throes of the Vietnam War

By The Reverend

When I was growing up Vietnam vets were still feeling the sting of the jungle. The government had fucked its bright-eyed boys by sending them out to die in the name of some faceless authority figure’s agenda.

To add insult to injury, they’d dumped foul chemicals on their own troops so that those who survived life in the shit came home to discover that public shunning was the least of their problems; they’d also have to cope with ashen skin, liver disorders and chloracne.

As a teenager, my mother would often joke that it was a minor miracle I didn’t come out with a conehead and webbed feet. My brothers and I would laugh, but it was a laugh with a definite edge to it. We knew Pops didn’t like to talk about ‘Nam nor did he ever volunteer any information about the rock hard lumps that would expand and contract on his calves, a deformity that could be traced back to Agent Orange.

One day when I was about 12-years old and at the peak of my morbid curiosity, I asked my father in a breathless whisper, “Did you ever shoot anybody?” His answer took the form of an affirmative grunt. He didn’t look at me or expound any further and I didn’t press the issue. It was obvious to me, even in adolescence, that war was something painful, awful and serious.

What I didn’t take into account was that veterans like my Pops didn’t like to talk about ‘Nam because they didn’t want to remember the bad stuff. As many people who have been through a traumatic experience can attest, it’s not always therapeutic to wallow in the grim details of that trauma. For some of us, it is far more cathartic to focus on the fun that was had in the margins of that misery.

This notion first occurred to me when I saw Stanley Kubrick’s landmark war comedy Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb. The film was based on a very dramatic work of war-based literature (Red Alert by Peter George) and the adaptation was initially intended to be an epic drama that would be at least somewhat faithful to its source material.

However, as pre-production played out, Kubrick alighted on a simple fact which would change the narrative trajectory of the story and yield one of the finest Hollywood satires of all time. What Kubrick realized was just how absurd war really is. Lo, the manic dark humor of Kubrick’s cinematic send-up of nuclear holocaust was born.

The film resulted in Peter Sellers’ very best comedic characters, Group Captain Mandrake, President Merkin Muffley and Dr. Strangelove, respectively. While marveling at the risque allusions to Nazi salutes and pubic hair, I suddenly understood the value in making light of devastation.

Later in life, after my father had moved to the wilderness and retired from his job, I went through the large oak desk that he’d kept in his home office throughout my childhood. I remembered it as a bit of a command post for Pops, a place where he could go to fill out his daily invoices, balance his checkbook and relax with a good novel.

Above the desk was a large glass cabinet which housed a king’s ransom of mass market paperbacks, virtually all of them concerning different aspects of the military experience. Whether it was a guide to wartime aviation, a ground armament assembly manual or simply a cheap work of fiction about P.O.W.s, it was all neatly organized as if it were one historical library.

Obviously, the old man hadn’t forgotten about ‘Nam nor did it seem like he really wanted to. But on that night in his new Upstate cabin, as we emptied out the desk and prepared to weed out old or unwanted items, I came across an envelope full of photographs. They represented the only actual record of my father’s time in the service aside from his official government documentation and medals.

When my father saw me holding the photos, I thought he’d snatch them out of my hands and return them to the drawer. Instead, a smile cut across his face and his eyes brightened. Inside the envelope I didn’t find any pictures of mushroom clouds or mangled bodies. I didn’t find any grim keepsakes whatsoever.

Instead, the photos I leafed through were photos of young men in uniform goofing off. With warm beers in hand, these squinty-eyed baby soldiers, not one of them more than 19-years old, hammed it up for the camera, throwing one another in headlocks, pouring their drinks on each other’s heads and flexing like beach-bound fools for the ladies who might have been seeing these photos back home.

One picture in particular caught my eye—Pops as a scrawny 17-year old kid with a Beatles haircut…except it was hard to make out his black bob beneath the brassiere he was wearing on his head. In the next photo, the boys were Conga dancing and Pops was wearing the bra on his emaciated chest.

After looking at these pics, I was at a loss for words. Fortunately, my father seized the opportunity and quickly interjected, “You want something I bought when I was there?”

I nodded.

He reached into the cabinet that housed his personal historical library of Vietnam and fished out a small paperback book. The book was Sorry ‘Bout That.

The book’s by-line is credited to Ken Melvin, some sort of pseudonym that represents the several servicemen who collaborated on this collection of cartoons, limericks and other GI-related “diversions.”

As the introduction states, “This book is no War and Peace. You might call it a piece of war—its lighter side. It isn’t meant to motivate, to win minds, cause defections, or sell a way of life—but it does point to that part of the American way of life which enables us to search in the darkness and come up with the light that is laughter.”

Sorry ‘Bout That breezily explores the bars, boondocks, cyclo girls and “dinky dau” of ‘Nam in a bite sized spread of easily digestible and often gut-busting vignettes. The “Numbah ones” are lampooned just as brutally as “Cheap Charlie.”

In much the same way that ‘Dr. Strangelove’ was able to find a sharp gallows humor in nuclear holocaust, Sorry ‘Bout That finds levity in rations, jitters, landmines and lousy juke joint grifters. It’s a fun read for vets and civilians alike, one that reminds us that the funny bone is the hardest one to lose in battle and, indeed, the most important bone in the human body.

Included in the book is a one-act play about a lonely soldier’s encounter with a woman of the night, one whose message is evident straight away. As mascot Asia Bird puts it, “It’s not the Saigon Tea you have to worry about. It’s the Saigon Tease.”

My copy came with a 1000000 Hell Bank note in it because Pops was always the frugal type. That cyclo girl would have to fleece another john because daddy was heading home with something in his wallet.

Also included is the “Sorry ‘Bout That” board game which starts at Tan Sun Nhut Air Terminal and may end with a return to your country of origin…if you play your cards right. If not then the instructions are quite clear. You land on the last spot and it’s back to the terminal with you. Have two ba me mas and call me in the morning!

As for that unfortunate Agent Orange situation, “Sorry ’bout that.”

How to Satisfy Readers

by Trebor Elliverf

In recent weeks, the Motorist has received an alarming number of letters from our readers, each of them outlining a different grievance they had with our content. In one such missive, a 63-year old single mother named Beverly S. laments the use of vulgarity in our articles.

Beverly writes, “I visited your webpage because my son had it open on his MaxiPad and I was frankly appalled by what I saw. The staggering number of typos and run-on sentences was bad enough, but your use of words like the C word and the F word threw me for a loop.

“I simply cannot understand why you young people insist on cussing when you could be making a point about the state of the world.”

As firm believers that the Cunt is, indeed, always right, we are always quick as Fuck to respond to such a letter. Understanding Beverly’s gripe made it clear that we needed to nudge her in the right direction. So we sent her son an email which pointed her to a piece that we hope makes the kind of point about the state of the world that she was hoping we would.

We have yet to hear back from Bev, but others have sounded a similar clarion call about our recent content with one reader writing in to chastise us for “making light of a school shooting” by running our prom post about Nikolas Cruz.

When we politely explained to said reader that the piece in question was making fun of school shooters and not school shootings we received a death threat in response. It was then that we fully grasped how serious this person was about murder, which is why we tried to keep him satisfied by sending him a coupon code good towards a brand-spanking new bump stock.

Sadly, this reader was still not satisfied…at least his additional threats of bodily harm suggested as much. This kind of outpouring of disappointment troubles us as we pride ourselves on giving the readers what they want.

With that in mind, we have implemented a new protocol that should keep everyone happy, regardless of their personal tastes, sense of humor (or lack thereof) or political beliefs. We call this protocol the Placate Readers, Idiots, Cunts and Killers system or PRICK, for short.

This is how we plan to satisfy our reads. This is how the PRICK works:


Treat everyone like a child. For those of us who didn’t come from broken homes, childhood was a time of warmth, compassion, understanding and support. Our mothers kept us nestled in their bosom, cradling us gently as we nursed their lactating nipples. Our fathers brought home the bacon, chewed it up into a fine paste and spat it into our mouths so that we would never have to bear the burden of learning how to chew.

Our readers demand the same and they damn sure should get it! That’s why we will be installing a filtration app on our homepage with facial recognition technology. In this way, all readers can enjoy the site without scarring their eyes and sensibilities by perusing something that was too harsh for them. No longer will their soft heads be racked with spasms of anger at something they do not agree with. Instead, the Motorist will be a safe space for hive minds of all stripes.


Most human beings are stubbornly resistant to change, we like things to remain the same. Change suggests disorder or disruption which puts many of us on edge. It is safe to say that Change would be a trigger word, were it not for the simple fact that it was used in Barack Obama’s campaign slogan in 2008.

As anyone with access to a television or computer can tell you, change seems to be a constant. The 24-hour news cycle illustrates this more than anything else. No doubt, some of our readers have been gobsmacked when we alluded to things like AI technology or Transpeople. These individuals don’t want to live in a time where the robots and the he-shes are gonna take over and plot world domination.

To remedy this problem we have alighted on the idea of fundamental renewal. In order to sustain Silent Motorist Media for one and all, we will routinely plagiarize ourselves around every corner. This is something we have already begun to do by introducing follow-up installments to previous articles.

For now on, if you see something new on this site then you will know that we have been hacked by gender fluid humanoid hovercraft machines with lizard eyes. If that appears to be the case, we urge you to STOP READING and AVOID THIS WEBSITE AT ALL COSTS!! The future of the bloodline is in your hands.


You may be thinking that our masthead is a mere coincidence, that our staff is just a sausage fest because nobody else wanted the job. How foolish of you to think that this wasn’t a calculated maneuver on our part. Here at the Motorist, we value isolationism and gender separatism because we understand it to be the only way to insulate ourselves and our readers from the cruel brutes at the gates.

You know who I’m talking about, the Other people. They. The ones that would have us all turn the frogs gay and make ourselves retarded by brushing our teeth with fluoridated toothpaste. These are the same mongrel scourges who would have you read something that you didn’t entirely align yourself with already.

Make no mistake, the Motorist has no place for women or children or queers or blacks or Chinese or half-breeds or little people or Menonites. If they don’t believe what you believe, then they don’t believe what we believe…because we believe whatever you believe. Believe me!

In an effort to ensure that we remain insulated from fringe perspectives and dangerous outlaw dogma, we have decided to build a complex firewall around this website designed to keep the savages at bay. If the Enemy attempts to gain purchase to this website and poison your precious mind with impure thoughts, they will be immediately redirected to Info Wars and/or Netflix’s Fuller House.


There is no better way to keep your mind from being muddied than to constantly clean things up. To this end, we are planning to spend $4.5 trillion in government grants on a dedicated team of fixers who will regularly scrub this site free of any troubling material.

As former-Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher once famously said, “I am extraordinarily patient, provided you peasants clean my cunt at once! And if I cannot see my reflection in its lips it is off with your heads!”

Yes, cleanliness is next to godliness, which is why God is a woman and Ariana Grande looks like she was dipped in wax at a doll factory. The cleaner you are, the better person you are.


Don’t look at me that way! You must realize by now that killing is the only thing we all have in common. Killing animals, killing the environment, killing ourselves at back-breaking jobs, killing time until our inevitable demise. Killing is what it’s all about.

I don’t care if you’re a vegan or Ted fucking Nugent, we’ve all got blood on our hands and some of us like it. The texture, the taste, the sense of it clinging to our skin and our olfactory nerves. If we can do one thing to keep all of our readers happy, it’s killing for your enjoyment.

This is our commitment to write at least one hatchet piece about someone you thoroughly revile every single week for the rest of all time. If we don’t keep up our end of the bargain, we will happily kill ourselves.

Should this protocol fail, we know other ways to satisfy you as well. They don’t call me the Raspberry Goatee for nothing. ; )

Like and share this post or we’ll kill your dog and poke your dad.

Watch My Watch Watch Me While I Buy My Watch

By Trebor Elliverf

I’m so glad that I took off work so I could stand in line for 18 hours to buy my new Apple watch. I can see it watching me through the storefront window, anticipating that wondrous moment when we will be united and I will place it on my arm.

Can you see my watch watching me? Watch me watch my watch as my watch watches me.

It knows I’m coming.

It knows everything about me.

When I get my watch home, we will watch Netflix together and my watch will watch me cry when Hank gets shot in the face in Breaking Bad.

My watch will know what to watch next. I feel an emotional connection to Hank, so I’ll feel an emotional connection to Under the Dome because Dean Norris is in it.

Watch my watch watch me sleep and monitor my circadian rhythm. My watch will know how to cure a hangover.

Watch what happens when I smoke too many cigarettes and my watch starts recommending vape juices and e-cigarettes and Chantix. Apparently my watch is close personal friends with Ray Liotta.

Watch watch learn. Watch watch implement.

Watch me add things to my cart. Watch me post pictures of Apple products to Instagram.

Watch me fall ill and forget to update my status. Watch me lose likes and friends.

My watch is low on battery so it feeds on its host.

Watch me lose weight. Watch my skin turn yellow.

My watch tells me I need to go jogging more often.

Watch Dick run as his watch counts the calories he’s burned.

Watch me strive for success and excellence in everything I do. Watch me learning to be my best self possible.

Watch my watch tell me how to live my life.

Watch my disapproving watch as it alerts police that I am up to no good. Watch my privacy repealed and my watch evolve.

Now watch me saw through my own radius as the tightens its grip on me. Watch my watch fall away from me. Watch me shut off.

Watch me no more.

…Okay, watch me again! Watch me show up to buy Apple’s new EyePhone Retinal Implant. Watch me watch myself watching things.

Watch the world evolve.