Clinton, South Carolina, Sunday, January 28, 2018, 4:49 p.m.

I read Preacher Man, by Clint Morey, of my own free will. I found it on Amazon. It was a quick read. The sample seemed promising.

It’s preposterous.

That I actually completed a novel I found this insipid is astonishing. It is an inspirational story. It is a quick read. Its absurd plot is written well. Sometimes I chuckled in the same way I might chuckle at the exploits of Jethro Bodine in The Beverly Hillbillies. It reminds me of what I once said about a race car that had an engine running so rough that it rattled the windows of the press box but made it through the whole feature.

“That fellow can build a bad engine good.”

Mark Twain allegedly said something along the lines of, the reason truth is stranger than fiction is that fiction has to make sense.

Preacher Man doesn’t make sense. The reader has to suspend disbelief with cables that would hold the Golden Gate Bridge up.

Luis is a two-bit criminal who accidentally witnesses a drug deal and knows that a corrupt cop is involved. The cop arrests Luis for jaywalking and attempts to kill him by handcuffing him to the steering wheel of his police cruiser, which he leaves on railroad tracks in front of an approaching freight train. Somehow, in seconds, Luis removes the steering wheel and escapes. Then the real Pastor Paul picks him up in the middle of the desert, has a heart attack, and crashes another car. Luis drags the comatose pastor into the town of Borax, Nevada, where he, a young Latino hoodlum, is somehow mistaken for the elderly Pastor Paul, who slowly recovers under the beautiful town doctor’s care. Luis has never been in a church before and has no idea what is in the Bible, but somehow his clueless sermon is acceptable to the local people, and its sheriff, in spite of it being delivered by a man who is handcuffed to a steering wheel while he is delivering it.

Meanwhile, the authorities are looking for Luis, most notably the corrupt police lieutenant who still aims to kill him because he knows he’s on the take from drug dealers, one of whom, Carlos, makes a few appearances of his own.

Borax, Nevada, makes Hooterville seem like a citadel of learning.

The story is inspirational and uplifting. It has amusing dialogue. The Pastor Paul impostor endears himself to the local citizens.

I’ve never read a novel this wildly nonsensical. I kept on reading to see how bad it could be. I wanted to know how the author was going to work his way out of this. I read it off and on because I was diligently completing a novel of my own at the time.

It’s a quick read with lots and lots of very short chapters. I’ve seen movies as bad — I think a movie of this novel would have to star a latter-day Elvis Presley or Frankie Avalon and have musical interludes — and perhaps some sixties sitcoms. Something along the lines of Mr. Ed or My Mother the Car.

Sometimes I watch such a movie or sitcom because it has pretty girls in it, and I’m amused to see how bad it gets.

I guess that’s why I stuck with this one.

There’s a perpetually drunk pilot, a doctor with a modicum of sense, a likable but naive sheriff, teens in love, grouchy old women and an inept football coach.

All the ingredients are in place, right down to a loving God. Maybe you should read it. Maybe you’re like me. Judging from other reviews, lots of readers like it.

As I brace for the author of this work to go online and “one-star” every single book I’ve written, I’d like to invite you to read them for yourself here.

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