In the crowded greenroom of a porn-movie production, hundreds of men mill around in their boxers, awaiting their turn with the legendary Cassie Wright. An aging adult film star, Cassie Wright intends to cap her career by breaking the world record for serial fornication by having sex with 600 men on camera—one of whom may want to kill her. Told from the perspectives of Mr. 72, Mr. 137, Mr. 600, and Sheila, the talent wrangler who must keep it all under control, Snuff is a dark, wild, and lethally funny novel that brings the presence of pornography in contemporary life into the realm of literary fiction.
|Publisher:||Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group|
|Product dimensions:||5.20(w) x 7.90(h) x 0.80(d)|
About the Author
Chuck Palahniuk’s eight previous novels are the bestselling Rant, Haunted, Lullaby, Diary, Choke—which was made into a 2008 film by director Clark Gregg, starring Sam Rockwell and Anjelica Huston—Survivor, Invisible Monsters, and Fight Club, which was made into a film by director David Fincher. He is also the author of the nonfiction profile of Portland, Oregon, Fugitives and Refugees, published as part of the Crown Journeys series, and the nonfiction collection Stranger Than Fiction. He lives in the Pacific Northwest.www.chuckpalahniuk.net
Date of Birth:February 21, 1962
Place of Birth:Pasco, Washington
Education:B.A. in journalism, University of Oregon, 1986
Read an Excerpt
One dude stood all afternoon at the buffet wearing just his boxers, licking the orange dust off barbecued potato chips. Next to him, a dude was scooping into the onion dip and licking the dip off the chip. The same soggy chip, scoop after scoop. Dudes have a million ways of peeing on what they claim as just their own.
For craft services, we're talking two folding tables piled with open bags of store–brand corn chips and canned sodas. Dudes getting called back to do their bit—the wrangler announces their numbers, and these performers stroll back for their money shot still chewing a mouthful of caramel corn, their fingers burning with garlic salt and sticky with the frosting from maple bars.
Some one–shot dudes, they're just here to say they were. Us veterans, we're here for the face time and to do Cassie a favor. Help her one more dick toward that world record. To witness history.
On the buffet, they got laid out Tupperwares full of condoms next to Tupperwares of mini-pretzels. Fun-sized candy bars. Honey-roasted peanuts. On the floor, plastic wrappers from candy bars and condoms, bit and chewed open. The same hands scooping M&M's as reaching into the fly and elastic waistband of boxers to stroke their half-hard dicks. Candy-colored fingers. Tangy ranch-flavored erections.
Peanut breath. Root-beer breath. Barbecued-potato-chip breath getting panted into Cassie's face.
Tweakers scratching their arms bright red. High-school virgins wanting to lose it on camera. This one kid, Mr. 72, is looking to get deflowered and into history in the same shot.
Skinny dudes keeping their T-shirts on, shirts older than some other performers here, sent out for the launch of Sex with the City a lifetime ago. Fan-club shirts from back when Cassie was starring in Lust Horizons. T-shirts older than Mr. 72, silk-screened before he was born.
Loud dudes talk on cell phones, talking stock options and ground-floor opportunities at the same time they pinch and milk their foreskins. All the performers, the wrangler Magic Marker–ed their biceps with a number between one and six hundred. Their haircuts, a monument to gel and patience. Tans and fogs of cologne.
The room full of metal folding chairs. To set the mood, dog-eared skin magazines.
The talent wrangler is some babe, Sheila, with a clipboard, yelling for number 16, number 31, and number 211 to follow her up the stairway to the set.
Dudes wearing tennis shoes. Top-Siders. Bikini briefs. Wingtips with navy-blue calf-high socks held up with those old-time garters. Beach flip-flops still coated with sand, every step gritty with it.
That old joke: The way to get a babe to act in a blue movie is you offer her a million dollars. The way to get a dude is you just have to ask him…That's not actually a joke. Not like a ha-ha joke.
Except maybe us industry regulars, most of these nobodies saw the ad that ran in the back of Adult Video News. An open casting call. A hard-on and a doctor's release to show you're clean, that was the audition. That, and nobody's shooting kiddie porn, so you had to be eighteen.
We got shaved pecs and waxed pubes standing in line with a Downs-syndrome softball team.
Asian, black, and spic dudes. A wheelchair dude. Something for every market segment.
The kid, dude 72, he's holding a bouquet of white roses starting to curl, droop, the petals slack and starting to brown. The kid's holding out one hand, words written on the back in blue ballpoint pen. Looking at them, the kid goes, "I don't want anything, but I've always loved you…"
Other dudes carry around wrapped boxes fluffy with bows and trailing ribbons, boxes small enough to fit in one hand, almost hidden inside their fingers.
The veteran talent wear satin bathrobes, prizefighter robes tied with a sash, while they wait their call. Professional woodsmen. Half them even dated Cassie, talked marriage, becoming the Lunts, the Desi and Lucy of adult entertainment.
Wasn't a performer at that shoot who didn't love Cassie Wright and want to help her make history.
Other dudes ain't dicked anything but their hand, watching nothing but Cassie Wright videos. To them, it's a kind-of fidelity. A marriage. These dudes, clutching their little gifts, for them today is their kind-of honeymoon. Consummation.
Today, her last performance. The opposite of a maiden voyage. Up those stairs, to anybody after the fiftieth dude, Cassie Wright will look like a missile crater greased with Vaseline. Flesh and blood, but like something's exploded inside her.
To look at us, you'd never guess we were making history. The record to end all records.
The talent wrangler comes around, calling out, "Gentlemen." The Sheila babe pushes the glasses up her nose and goes, "When I call you, you'll need to be camera-ready."
By that she means fully erect. Condom-ready.
The closest thing that comes to how the day felt is when you wipe back to front. You're on the toilet. You're not thinking, and you smear shit on the back of your hanging-down wrinkled ball skin. The more you try to wipe it clean, the skin stretches and the mess keeps getting bigger. The thin layer of shit spreads into the hair and down your thighs. That's how a day like this, how it feels to keep secret.
Six hundred dudes. One porn queen. A world record for the ages. A must-have movie for every discerning collector of things erotic.
Didn't one of us on purpose set out to make a snuff movie.
It was a lamebrainplan, bringing roses. I don't know. The first step inside the door, they give you a brown paper shopping bag with a number written on the side, some number between one and six hundred. They say, "Put your clothes in here, kid." And they give you a wood clothespin with the same number in black pen. They say, "Clip it to your shorts. Don't lose it or you won't get your stuff back." The crew girl, she wears a stopwatch on a cord, hanging on her chest where her heart would be.
Taped to the wall behind the table where you undress, they got a sign done in the same black pen, on brown paper; it says how the production company isn't responsible for anybody's valuables.
Another sign they got says "No Masks Allowed."
Some bags, guys put their shoes in with a sock balled inside each. Their belt coiled tight and nested in one shoe. Their pants folded, the creases matched, and laid on top the shoes. Their shirts tucked under their chin while they match up the arms and fold the collar and tails so as to make the least wrinkles. Their undershirt, folded. Their necktie rolled and tucked in a pocket of their suit jacket. Guys with good clothes.
Other guys pull off their jeans or sweatpants, balled up, inside out. Their T-shirts or sweatshirts. They peel off their damp underwear, and stuff it into the bags, then on top they drop their stinking tennis shoes.
After you undress, the stopwatch girl takes your bag of clothes and puts it on the floor, against the concrete wall.
Everybody, they're standing around in their shorts, juggling their wallets and car keys, cell phones, and whatnot.
Me bringing a bouquet of roses, wilting and all, more junk to juggle, it was just plain stupid.
Getting undressed, I was unbuttoning my shirt, and the stopwatch girl giving out paper bags, she points at my chest and says, "You planning to wear that on camera?"
She's holding a bag marked with the number "72." The clothespin clipped to one paper handle. My number. The stopwatch girl points her gun finger at my chest, and she says, "That."
Tucking my chin, I look down until it hurts, but all I can see is my crucifix on the gold chain around my neck.
I ask if that's a problem. A crucifix.
And the girl reaches out with the clothespin, squeezing it open. She jabs to pinch it on my nipple, but I pull back. She says, "We've been doing this a long time." She says, "We know to look out for you Bible thumpers." From her face, she could be a high-schooler, about my age.
The stopwatch girl says how the actress Candy Apples, when she set her record with 721 sex acts, they used the same group of fifty men for the entire production. That was in 1996, and Candy only stopped because the LAPD raided the studio and shut down the production.
She says, "True fact."
When Annabel Chong set her early record, the stopwatch girl says, performing 251 sex acts, even with eighty men showing up for the cattle call, some 66 percent of them couldn't get their dicks hard enough to do their job.
That same year, 1996, Jasmin St. Claire broke Chong's record with three hundred sex acts in a single shoot. Spantaneeus Xtasy broke the record with 551. In the year 2000, the actress Sabrina Johnson took on two thousand men, fucking until she hurt so bad the crew had to pack ice between her legs as she sucked off the remainder of the cast. After her royalty checks started to bounce, Johnson went public with the news that her record was bogus. At most, she'd done five hundred sex acts, and instead of two thousand men, only thirty-nine had answered the casting call.
The stopwatch girl points at the crucifix, saying, "Don't try to save anybody's soul here."
The next guy down the table, he pulls off a black T-shirt, his head and arms and chest the same even suntan brown. A ring shines gold, hanging from one nipple. His chest hair lies flat, every hair cropped down to the same stubble size. Looking at me, he says, "Hey, buddy…" He says, "Don't save her soul before they call me for my close-up, okay?" And he winks big enough to wrinkle half his face around one eye. His eyelashes big enough to fan a breeze.
Up close, he's smoothed a layer of pink all over his forehead and cheeks. Three colors of brown powder around his eyes, folded into the little wrinkles there. Clamped under one arm, between his elbow and tanned ribs, the guy holds a wad of white, maybe more clothes.
On the other side of the table, the stopwatch girl turns her head to look both ways. She stuffs a hand into one front pocket of her blue jeans, asking me, "Hey, preacher, you want to buy some insurance?" The girl fishes out a little bottle, big around as a test tube, but shorter. She shakes the bottle to rattle some blue pills inside. "Ten bucks each," she says, and shakes the blue pills next to her face. "Don't you be part of that sixty-six percent."
The guy wearing makeup, the stopwatch girl hands him a bag numbered "137," saying, "You want the teddy bear should go in your bag?"
She nods toward the white bundle under the guy's elbow.
Guy 137 whips the wad of white clothing from under his arm, saying, "Mr. Toto is nothing so pedestrian as a teddy bear_._._." He says, "Mr. Toto is an autograph hound." He kisses it, saying, "You wouldn't believe how old."
The stuffed animal is sewed out of white canvas, a long wiener-dog body with, sticking down, four stubby white canvas legs. Stitched on the top, a dog head with black button eyes and floppy canvas ears. Crabbed all over the white canvas is writing, blue, black, and red pen handwriting. Some loopy letters, some block letters. Some with dates. Numbers. A day, month, and year. Where the guy kissed it, the dog's smeared red with lipstick.
He holds the dog in the crook of one arm, the way they'd hold a baby. With his other hand, the guy points out writing. Signatures. Autographs. Carol Channing, he shows us. Bette Midler. Debbie Reynolds. Carole Baker. Tina Turner.
"Mr. Toto," he says, "is older than I myself would ever admit to being."
Still holding the bottle of blue pills, the stopwatch girl says, "You want Miss Wright should autograph your dog?"
Cassie Wright, the guy tells us, is his all-time favorite adult star. Her level of craft soars above her peers.
Guy 137, he says how Cassie Wright spent six months shadowing an endocrinologist, learning his duties, studying his demeanor and body language, before playing a doctor in the groundbreaking adult feature Emergency Room Back Door Dog Pile. Cassie Wright spent six months of research, writing to survivors and studying court documents, before she set foot on the set for the adult mega-epic Titanic Back Door Dog Pile. In her single line of dialogue, the moment Cassie Wright says, "This boat's not the only lady going down, tonight…" her west-country Irish accent is dead-on, depicting exactly how hot the steerage free-for-all sex must've been in the final moments of man's worst sea disaster.
"In Emergency Room," he says, "in the lesbian scene with the two hot laboratory assistants, it's obvious that Cassie Wright is the only performer who knows the correct way to work a speculum."
The critics, guy 137 says, justifiably raved about her portrayal of Mary Todd Lincoln in the Civil War epic Ford's Theatre Back Door Dog Pile. Later re-released as Private Box. Later re-released as Presidential Box. Guy 137 tells us, in the scene where Cassie Wright gets double-teamed by John Wilkes Booth and Honest Abe Lincoln, thanks to her research, she truly does make American history come alive.
Still cradling his canvas dog, its black button eyes against his gold nipple-ring, the guy says, "How much for your pills?"
"Ten bucks," says the stopwatch girl.
"No," the guy says. He stuffs the dog back under his arm and reaches around to his back pants pocket. Taking out his wallet, he pinches out twenty, forty, a hundred dollars, saying, "I mean, how much for the entire bottle?"
The stopwatch girl says, "Lean over so I can write your number on your arm."
And guy 137 winks at me again, his big eye looking bigger inside all that brown powder, and he says,
"You brought roses." He says, "How sweet is that?"
What People are Saying About This
"Palahniuk compassionately and candidly examines the flesh-on-film industry." -Publishers Weekly
Most Helpful Customer Reviews
No one can write utter dysfunction and madness like the master himself. Every time I sit down and open a Palahniuk book I get a bit giddy. I know this book will leave me wondering what just happened but give me one great ride getting there. Mr. Palahniuk's 8th book, Snuff, tells the tale of Cassie Wright, an aging porn star out to break the mother of all records for the pornography industry. She, in her final role, will sleep with 600 men on film in one shooting. As you progress through just the beginning of the book you soon realize that no one expects Cassie to live through this, not even Cassie herself. In the book you read from 3 characters 1st person recounting of them at the shoot. Mr. 72, Mr 137, and Mr. 600. You also get a narration from the days leading up to the shoot and the shoot from Cassie's personal assistant, Shelia. Mr. 72 believes he is Cassie's son she gave up for adoption after she conceived him during her first adult movie, Mr. 137 is an out of work actor who lost his show due to a gay film he had made, and Mr. 600 is the co-star and believed father of Cassie's child. Don't worry, it's as messed up as it sounds, but not in the ways you are thinking. I can't say much more about the book without this review being a spoiler, which I refuse to do in any capacity for any book. Just know that if you enjoyed Palahniuk's other works you know what to expect from this one. You're not going to have a clue what hit you.
This is a good book! Short and sweet, with amazing characters, great stories and the usual Palahniuk twist and turns. Three men are waiting for their turn to be with Cassie Wright (porn star) they are Mr. 72, Mr. 137 and Mr. 600. Cassie is trying to break the record for a gang bang. Another character in the book is Sheila, Cassie's assistant, she provides several chapters. The book is broken down into very short chapters, each chapter a different character is talking, much like in "Haunted", for those of you that have read it. Good funny, dirty book with a hilarious ending! Read it for a good laugh or to just peak into the world of Chuck Palahniuk's mind!
This book is perverted, sick, and twisted. It is exactly what some people say is 'wrong with America.' But that is what makes this book so perfect. It breaks boundaries, going places that no other book has gone before. I have read every book by Chuck Palahniuk, and I would arguably say that this is my favorite novel of his. A+ for this dirty little book.
Aging porn-queen Cassie Wright plans to retire on a high point by having sex, on film, with 600 men. The title IS Snuff, but it's not what you think. Raunchy, bizarre and shocking, but also laugh-out-loud funny. This is Palahniuk at his very best.
It's a Palahniuk book. What were you expecting?
This is one of those read that I am not sure if I should be appalled or entertained. It seemed like a cross between Oedipus Rex and Debbie Does Dallas. I have read a few of Palahniuk's books, but this one is the strangest thus far.
Entertaining read. Palahniuk always seems to find way to include random bits of trivia.
Chuck Palahniuk is a really talented writer whom I fear will have his works misinterpreted. For on the one hand, he has quite a knack for delivering a superficial, though by no means trivial, raging masculinity among his characters. The feeling of empowerment he creates within such characters is tangible, though on the other hand his ability to subtly mock them, and create an air of absurdity around their every action is also very nuanced. Thereby his works appeal both to the crowd looking for a quick fix of titillation and/or depravity as well as those attempting to derive meaning and not merely enjoyment from such instances.I'm feeling particularly smug for using the word 'titillation' in reference to his latest book, Snuff. For on the one hand it really is an exploration into how many clever titles one can think of for pornographizing Hollywood movie titles and depicting the described "instances of sex" within an atypical adult movie production. Conversely, Palahniuk masterfully speculates upon the traces, steps, and circumstances of one's decisions to appear in such a production, as well as the terminology and variety of colorful archetypes one may find quite literally hanging around the production set.This particular story is about the interaction of a group of characters temporarily sequestered from the adult film star attempting to smash the record for "instances of sex" in one, her final, farewell movie appearance. Waiting for their respective turn, Palahniuk weaves these characters' background into a humorous and intriguing dialogue of opportunism, degeneracy, chivalry, and desperation. We are introduced to four characters, Mr. 72, Mr. 137, Mr. 600, and Sheila, the "talent wrangler" and assistant to the star, coordinating the project. Without going into too much detail, we catch a glimpse of differing motivation and lifestyle among the characters: young and innocent, resigned and marginalized, and the proudly, cruelly, and ignorantly self-centered.Suffice it to say, what happens next is pure Palahniuk. If there's anything consistent about his style, it's that he most likely despises any sort of formulaic, contrived structure to the story. Though he may have a slight fixation of the role of the mother in some of his works, he doesn't pay a whole lot of attention to providing comfy closure for his players or readers.In any case, not only does Palahniuk vividly illustrate the rawness of the adult industry in this book, he conveys the collective discomfort of Hollywood as a whole, one desperate character at a time. In the process demonstrating an existential absurdity that's both entertaining and meaningful.
I love the way Chuck P. writes. This novel was a wild ride. Suspenseful, sickly funny, insightful into the darker aspects of human nature - avarice, pettiness, loneliness, revenge. Not for the sexually faint of heart, obviously. If you can't stomach the idea of a gang bang, move on. If taking part in a gang bang is one of your secret (or not so secret) fantasies be prepared to want to stop reading every few chapters to watch some porn.Of course, I'm just guessing about that last thing.
Although Snuff is not one of Palahniuk's best pieces of work, I did like how he told the story concurrently through the voices of the four main characters (Shelia, Mr. 72, Mr. 137, and Mr. 600). Although the book is about the porn industry and one star in particular (Ms. Cassie Wright) attempting to achieve the unprecedented 600 sexual acts in one production title, it is not filled with gratuitous sexual imagery. True Fact. If you are a fan of Palahniuk¿s, then Snuff is worth the read. If this is the first book of his you have picked up, you may want to start with another title. True Fact. Confused? Read the book and you¿ll understand.
I'm a big fan of Palahniuk, he is not afraid to put anything (and I mean anything) out there...and boy did he in Snuff, his latest. His books are so easy to read, so out there...how can you not enjoy it!
What happened, Mr. Palahniuk? My first exposure to your wit and philosophy was through Fight Club. Your novel, Choke, was the hit that got me addicted. And then I soared through Lullaby, Survivor, Invisible Monsters, and Haunted. Then Rant. I could see it coming with Rant. The beginning of the end, but I could still see some of the Palahniuk I loved in Rant....but Snuff? WTH? The only trademark Palahniuk I could even remotely find in Snuff was the outrageous ending and the constant referral to men as masturbatory pet names. I felt the same way, reading this book, as I do when watching a bad Ben Stiller movie. I do not know what this book was trying to accomplish--but if it was complete and utter disgust and dismay.....
To be fair, I think it is important to begin this by admitting to be a Chuck Palahniuk fan, so there is going to be a bit of a bias contained in this viewpoint. That being said, Snuff felt like it just had a really shallow plot. It never really felt like it took off like most of his other novels eventually do. Events never really connected, and most of the characters never really felt like they developed into anything more than they started off as. There were some interesting aspects of the novel though. Each chapter in the novel was told by a different character, and as the novel progressed, we learned a decent amount about each character from hearing a bit of the story from their side, which their personality and bias, and with their perspective. This worked to at least allow us to get to know each character while still moving through the story. It just would have been nice if there was some development in the characters as they made their way through the story, rather then just getting to know them. I think that is an important distinction to make in this novel. You absolutely do get to know each of the characters and their motives for being at the scene and what they want out of it. But the characters feel static in the story. They feel like riders at time letting the story drive them, rather then the characters driving the story. So, I would not recommend this to someone looking for an entry to Chuck Palahniuk's works. I think there are better novels to start with. However, if you are a fan of his novels, I think there is something different and something you might find interesting here, and would not necessarily say it is a must read, but I think that it is still a rather quick and fairly enjoyable read overall.
This was the first book I ever read of his - interesting and I think I'll read some earlier ones.
Meh. They wanted to break a record. 600 men, 1 woman..the comeback to end comebacks. Told from the perspective of 3 of the men and the "talent wrangler", intriguing, but I figured it out very early on. I am not sure if I was supposed to or if it was supposed to be some big surprise. Kind of surreal...Best part of the book was the descriptions and names of the previous porn that the aging star had been in. I kind of hope that Palahniuk made them up, I can't imagine porn having that kind of budget, but that was totally amusing to me.
Snuff is a novel I shouldn't admit to having read. I remorsefully read it in less time than I'm comfortable admitting. My third Palahniuk novel and certainly not my last. One has to admire the level of research required for such a topic.
Laking the usual shock-factor, slow-moving, and not very engaging. Was thoroughly unimpressed with this Palahniuk novel.
I had high expectations for this book, hoping for something a riveting as Invisible Monsters or Rant, but I was very disappointed. This book could have been written in 30 pages or less. Even at a short 193 pages the book felt too long. I had figured out the main plot twist in the first 50 pages, so I kept reading just to get to the end of the book. The book did make me laugh a few times out loud, but that does not make up for the repeating the same story through the eyes of 4 different characters. Very repetitive, dull and forgetful. Chuck..Oh Chuck where have you gone...?
I've heard awesome things about Chuck Palahniuk, but this book was less than interesting. I didn't think the plot was all that great, nor was the style of writing. This book makes it hard for me to think that any other of Chuck Palahniuks work is worth the time to read.
Have to give the author some points for taking on a difficult, embarassing topic. The porn industry certainly has to be one of the most important dirty little secrets of the twenty-first century. Beyond the shock value, the most interesting part of this book were the small little known facts about the porn industry and more broadly, the entertainment industry peppered throughout the book. Marilyn Monroe took long baths in icewater to firm up her skin. Who knew?
In Snuff, Palahniuk continues the central problem of Haunted. He has great short stories and interesting quirks to tell you about the porn industry. But instead of just doing that he creates four narrators that you never really care or feel about, and to make matters worse when you do finally learn their real names, the chapters are still titled by the narrators number. If he has these great stories to tell us, then he should just write a collection of short stories as he has in the past. In both Haunted and Snuff you never really care if the narrators live or die as the insanity of most of their actions in comparison to real human beings means you never feel for them.
Dark, Dirty, and Vulgar commentary on society. Basically the combination that has always worked for Chuck Palahniuk in the past, but this time something was just missing. I don't know if it's because he's getting predictable, the novels are getting shorter, or if Snuff just wasn't up to snuff. I liked the general idea. And the combination of Palahniuk's style and the porn industry seemed like it could produce something great. But, as others have noted, it did indeed feel like a short story that tried to push itself just a bit too far. The entire thing could have been told and wrapped up far sooner, and outside of the random churning facts, the general story held little appeal. Overall, not a bad read, but not the one I would recommend if someone hadn't read his works before.
Yet another mesmerizing book by Palahniuk. Gives a vivid insight into the world of record breaking gang-bangs. His style is so colloquial, you can really identify with his characters...especially if you are a sex addicted deviate.
disturbing and funny as usual!i liked this book alot! took me 3 days to read and i think anyone who enjoy's palahnuiks work will love this!
Whenever I see a review which begins with the words 'X is one of my favourite authors' I start anticipating the 'but'. So maybe I should begin by telling you that Chuck Palahniuk is one of my favourite authors. Choke, Fight Club, Lullaby, Survivor - I've enjoyed them all. The subject matter of most of these books could of course be described as gritty, I'm sure some would even say shocking. Palahniuk's plot lines have never been very far from the knuckle. And here it comes... BUT... no matter how gritty the details in his previous books for me the author has never set out to outrage anyone, it's just the way the stories have shaped up. That's not something I would say about Snuff. The story line of a porn star who sets out to break the world record for 'serial fornication' - as the back cover blurb so delicately puts it - just smacks to me of an author who has sat down in front of a blank sheet of paper and though 'hmm, how can I make sure I keep up my reputation for being outrageous'. That said, Snuff was an entertaining enough read, if not up to the high standards of Palahniuk's previous novels. I just hope it's not an indication that one of my favourite authors is running out of ideas.