There's a rising tide of weirdness, you see it in movies (Being John Malkovich, City of Lost Children, Love Exposure, I Heart Huckabees), you hear it in music (Six Organs of Admittance, Animal Collective) and of course we see it onrushing into the wonderful world of modern fiction too. 
 Me, I go only so far. I like jazz, for instance, when I can discern the vestiges of the melody the guy is improvising upon, when there's the merest mental toehold left in the cacophony, it's 99% wildness but there's still that 1% my mind can cling to with one bent-back fingernail. It's the same with fiction, the merest ghost of a rumour of a photocopy of a plot, and that's okay. If my mind can't believe there's any melody left or any plot at all, then I freefall into softly tumbling fearfulness; as soon as I can find a tree branch to cling to, I make a polite excuse and leave. 
 There's a great science fiction story called Mr Boy by James Patrick Kelly from 1990 which is 23 years ago now. In this charming story Mr Boy is a 25 year old rich guy but he's decided to get biologically "stunted" so he remains physically 12 years old. His best friend has been "tweaked" and now looks like a 12 foot dinosaur. His mother, for a couple of decades now, got herself genetically modified into a small scale replica of the Statue of Liberty - still as big as a house. Mr Boy lives in a spacious apartment inside his mother. Actual science fiction has been doing this kind of crazy ass stuff a long time and still is - check out Bruce Sterling, for instance (I love him). Also great absurdist short story satires about America and its possible futures are not hard to come by. From the fecund womb of Donald Barthelme with some pre-birth oofle-dusting from Jorge Luis Borges, you have Alissa Nutting, George Saunders and a whole host ramping around. And there are novels too - Blueprints of the Afterlife fits right next to Let the Dog Drive, White Noise, My Elvis Blackout, Infinite Jest, God is Dead, and very numerous others. 
 Deadpan surreal future-America satire is what all these are, in their different ways. 
 And now we have a whole genre dedicated to being weirder than everyone else called bizarre fiction (The Haunted Vagina, The Baby Jesus Butt Plug, They Had Goat Heads, and so on and on - I've not read any of those yet). Can we also mention Rabelais here - his Gargantua and Pantagruel is bizarro fiction written in the 1530s. 
 So, Blueprints has some intense competition. Blueprints is pretty weird, as you have heard by now. Ryan Boudinot is out there frolicking at the edge of coherence, but let us not get carried away. 
 I did enjoy Mr Boudinot's zest, his phrasemaking and his willingness to have a go. He does boldly plunge. For instance : 
 "At this point he may want to start dismembering you. Most likely this will begin with your fingers and toes and move on up the extremities. You are expected to react with appropriate terror and beg for your life." 
 Stella. "I can do that." 
 Henrietta. "Then he will likely decapitate you. Please, at this point, if you could, feign death." 
 Or 
 The apartment was on the fifth floor of a tree-ringed, green-built, post-FUS building, with windows overlooking the retinal-rape neon of a takeout Szechuan hole-in-the-wall. 
 That's RB's style, right there. It therefore seems a shame that he lapses so frequently into dialogue which can only be describes as fifth hand crap : 
 Squid said, "You guys just need to know it's not safe for you to be digging into all this shit. Just leave it alone and walk away." 
 "We're all in danger, dude. I'm putting myself on the line just talking to you." 
 Also, alas, he badly needs a lame-comedy detector. If he has one the batteries must have conked. One of his main characters is Neethan F Jordan. His sections are largely satires of future-celebrity and TV culture. The target was obvious, the humour was crude and cartoony, and 30 Rock already skewers celebs and tv and all of that brilliantly. 
 Also, here's another (minor) moan. When Hollywood used to do historical drama, they got the costumes reasonably authentic-looking but the hairstyles of the actresses were always glaringly contemporary; in Blueprints when anyone plays music it's always 100-plus-years old music, like Guns 'n' Roses or The Disposable Heroes of Hiphoprisy - yeah, probably the very stuff our author grew up listening to. Well, it's his book, but it didn't seem likely that people from the age after the age of FUS would be listening to "albums" by acts like that. Anyway, why should I be bothering about abrogations of verisimilitude in such a novel as this, which uses as its main plot device the "and ...and...and" of a fairytale dreamscape... and then I was in a field, and my aunt said to me...and then we were being eaten by George W Bush... In fact RB anticipates my own complaint right there on page 228 : 
 She yearned for plot but instead absurdity after absurdity had been thrown before her, absurdities that alluded to obscure purposes. 
 I don't really want to put the boot into this book, it was colourful and there were a lot of bells and twinkly lights and there were some cute little doors which you could open and there were people inside who waved at you, but...it's comedy science fiction. Like Christian death metal, not the world's best genre.