The Shaolin Cowboy is completely off the wall. Like an unhinged stream of consciousness, but less of a stream, more of an unrelenting downpour. Like a scathing commentary on modern America and technology, but with more chi paths, talking crabs, and house pets with a cigarette problem. The book follows no traditional narrative structure. It meanders and it confuses. It's a mess, really. But it's a lovably offensive, beautifully illustrated, remarkably hilarious mess. A magnificent, whimsical disaster.