Have you ever wanted to taste your fiction in fetid detail? Does the thought of inducing bloody mind-vomit excite you? Perhaps you should answer the dinner bell and gorge yourself. The technicolor fairytales of Jason Wuchenich's 'Dinner Bell for the Dream Worms' are a celebration of divine depravity. Marvel as clusters of vine-grown skanks turn the world into a sewer of dirty sex. Learn to sympathize with a love-stricken Incubus who can only materialize with the aid of flatulence. Delight at the magical song of anal-dwelling minstrels. Enter a mind set where scalping yourself is an understandable reaction to an impending television appearance. With enough deranged sex and gratuitous violence to weave into a horrifying rug, Jason Wuchenich's first book is a perfect combination of brains and vomit.