Bean Bag: A Play in II Acts

Bean Bag is not a novel. It's not a memoir. It's not even a coherent thought - and that's the point.
Instead, what you're holding is a seething, surrealist spiral notebook cracked open into literary purgatory. A collision of late-night thoughts, basement philosophies, tangents, manifestos, diatribes, and snack-fueled apocalypse warnings. There are squirrels. There are Care Bears. There are epiphanies found in convenience stores and political systems run by origami.

At times it reads like a fever dream. At others, like the inner monologue of a prophet who's watched too much late-90s cable and survived. It is at once grotesque, hilarious, grotesquely hilarious - and somehow honest. For readers who like their literature unfiltered, unhinged, and unclassifiable - Bean Bag is a batshit transmission from the edge of the known universe. Consider this your invitation.

Written by Jason J. Orlic, a poet-turned-safety consultant-turned-prophet of the strange, this debut novel drops readers into a world where sense has been outsourced, vending machines judge your moral fiber, and the local neighborhood cat may be a divine emissary.

This is not a story. It's a transmission.

Blurring the lines between cult manifesto, metafiction, and deeply personal meltdown, Bean Bag skewers modern life with the accuracy of a squirrel wielding a shrink ray.

You will laugh. You will squint. You will question everything, especially your furniture.

Enter willingly.
Bring snacks.
All hail Roary.