Reading this book is like sitting in a chair opposite David Wong. Only you're duct taped to the chair, because he's a Cracked writer, and probably has seen some serious shit. 
 "You remember my previous book?" He asks, like a Bond villain making idle chatter. 
 "What? John Dies at the End? Yeah. That was funny and emotional. Really genuine. I liked the movie, too." 
 "Good." He smokes some kind of pretentious cigar. "You don't need to have read that, but you'll pick up on some other stuff if you did. Good. Now, I'm going to do my second book to you." 
 "Do?" 
 "Do. Do the things it'll do. Firstly, I'll make you laugh. I'll tell some dick jokes, because I"m a Cracked writer. Interspersed within will be some pithy shit, but the jokes will keep coming." 
 He does. You laugh, and occasionally nod your head solemnly. "Now what?" 
 "Now," he says, smiling to himself like he's joke the world's funniest joke inside his head that guarantees an orgasm at the end, "I'm going to punch you. Repeatedly. In the stomach." 
 "Why?" 
 "It's all about emotions, man. You can about the characters, right? You heard their pithy dick jokes. You'd looked at their lives. Now I'm going to do things to them and those around them that will punch you in the stomach." 
 "Jesus," you say, or invoke some personally-appropriate cosmic principal or secular alternate thereof. Are you really gonna--" 
 He screams in your ear, and you nearly piss yourself. 
 "Dammit," you wheeze. "Dammit, that was scary. I--" 
 Then he punches you in the stomach, followed by a dirty joke, an observation on life, and another punch. 
 You're panting, wondering how many James Bond goes through the same shit in his movies without shitting himself. "Okay. What next." 
 David tells you something so awesome that you want to pump your fist in the air. 
 "Okay." You lick your lips. "What happens now?" 
 "Now," he says, taking a self-indulgent draw on the cigar just for his own amusement, "I'm going to keep doing all of that to you over and over again with increasing intensity." 
 You sit there for what seems like eternity, staring at each other. 
 "Will I like it when you're done?" 
 He shrugs. "Who fucking knows?" 
 Then he does it to you. All of it. Over and over again. 
 "Okay," you finally whisper. "When is book three coming out?"