e-book Who P-p-p-plugged Roger Rabbit?

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The Bookwatch Fast, funny, and sus-p-p-p-pensful. Nassau Herald The Toonish imagery, the slapstick humor, the double entendre dialogue all contribute to turn this book into a Technicolor vision as you read.

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  • Gary K. Wolf Signed "Who P-P-P-Plugged Roger Rabbit?" LE Book (JSA COA) | Pristine Auction?
  • Gary K. Wolf Signed "Who P-P-P-Plugged Roger Rabbit?" LE Book (JSA COA) | Pristine Auction.

Nashville Banner The welcome mat is out again at Toontown. Expect the usual surreal hi-jinks. In Wolf's crazy universe, a never-never-land gag is always around the corner. It's a fast and funny story made up of equal parts of cartoon pratfalls, tough-guy detective action and sly humor. It's an endlessly entertaining tale with jokes and puns that leap at you like out-of-control cartoon speech balloons. Austin American-Statesman Stay Tooned. If you enjoyed the movie Who Framed Roger Rabbit, you'll have to run out to the bookstore and buy its sequel.

It's a good, hare-raising mystery. Newport News Times-Herald and Daily Press Eddie Valiant, the hard-boiled private eye who makes Sam Spade look like Little Lord Fauntleroy, takes the lumps and solves the mysteries while spouting the most incredible array of similes ever committed to paper.

Who P-P-p-plugged Roger Rabbit? by Gary Wolf (, Paperback) for sale online | eBay

There haven't been such characters since the Tin Man and the Cowardly Lion. The wildest adventure since Alice went through the looking glass. The highest form of comedy. Indianapolis Star Fun reading. Reno Gazette-Journal. Convert currency.

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Shipped from UK. The original novel was much darker and took much more influence from pulp detective novels than the world of cartoons. The plot was also significantly different and actually saw Eddie Valiant attempt to solve the murder of Roger Rabbit, who is shot very early into the novel. The plot thickens, when he is also hired by the films producer David O.

Selznick, to investigate a robbery he suspects was committed by one of his choices for the lead role. I had a blast reading this book. I enjoyed the loose continuity between the two previous iterations as it allowed for some liberal bending of the rules in terms of the characters. Eddie Valiant is conveniently given two new siblings to match his movie-introduced-Toon-murdered brother Teddy, a new missing brother, Freddy and his sister Heddy. Eddie Valiant is just a great character and the funniest moments throughout the book are usually his dialogue and internal monologues which again, are heavily influenced by the gumshoe pulps.

Cotton candy ear canals, marshmallow fur, and lemon-drop mittens put him next in line to replace Shirley Temple as First Mate on the Good Ship Lollipop.

P-p-p-please come in, he said out loud, spraying me with enough saliva to irrigate the San Fernando Valley. One whole wall displayed autographed photos of famous celebs. Studio prexy Walt Disney and his adopted nephew Mickey. Benny the Cab out for an evening of engine revving with Fangio, the Spanish race car driver.

Baby Herman making goo-goo eyes at Carole Lombard and her making them back. Roger even had one of me and Doris. Together and happy. A faded chunk of wall space contained a hook but no likeness. In a nearby wastebasket, I spied a silver picture frame. I eyeballed its eight by ten.

She looked terrific, even scraped and torn by broken glass. Roger had a better use for it.

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He set out glasses—decaled with his likeness—and poured from a bottle of bourbon with more years on it than a perpetual calendar. I lit a smoke and tried to ignore Roger whooping, turning colors, smoking at the ears, pin-wheeling his eyes, and careening around the room with the wobbly abandon of a lopsided skyrocket. I counted seven points in his imperfect landing. He skidded to a stop with his head stuck in a large vase. He twisted it side to side and levered it with his feet, but it refused to come off.

Wearing his Ming turban, he groped his way blindly around the coffee table until he came to several recent copies of Variety and The Hollywood Reporter. He held them up. Do you read the trades? His words popped out of the vase individually, strung together like links in a chain. The only movies that copped my six bits showed John Wayne whaling the living tar out of galoots wearing black ten-gallon hats. Hop hop hooray for Hollywood.

Selznick, loved me in Song of the South. The writing inside had the broad, swooping mushiness of a pen dipped in grits. When the word bubble popped, it was with a fragrant whiff of honeysuckle. And getting longer every day. By touch and feel, he located a wad of newspaper clippings.


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He handed them in my general direction. I gave them a onceover. According to unnamed but in-the-know sources Jessica Rabbit was baking her carrot cakes for Clark Gable. The clippings gave the whats, whens, and wherefores in embarrassing detail. I tossed the articles on an end table. They hit with a juicy smack. Rabbits will be rabbits. Roger muttered a string of the gobbledygook you get dragging your finger along the top row of a typewriter. The steam coming out of his ears blew the vase off his noodle. It shattered against the wall. The impact might have jolted some sense into him.

Who P-P-P-Plugged Roger Rabbit?

I want you to make them stop. The rabbit helped himself to a Big Red One, a brand of cigar artificially colored to resemble a stick of dynamite. Sometimes the goofballs who roll and paint them slip a few of the real thing into the box. Roger lit the fuse. I held my ears. Nothing came out but smell and pollution. I already contacted one. He told me a lawsuit could drag on for years.

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By then the damage will have been done. Selznick is risking millions on Gone With the Wind. I opened my office door and held my hat in front of it. My fedora came back with no holes. Which meant Doris had either forgiven me or run out of bullets. Maybe she was hiding in my bottom desk drawer. I checked. Nothing in there but that nasty old bottle of firewater. I put it to my lips and tilted it back. The booze, or maybe a tear, had smeared the ink that formed my name. Maybe, in time, I could learn to abide your crazy schedule, your financial peaks and valleys, and your lowlife friends.