Carl Hiassen is continually dogged by those miscellaneous authors such as Elmore Leonard, Ben Elton, Robert Llewellyn, et cetera, who wish to depict a highly esoteric and warped view of the modern world. Hiassen has, though, been coveted as the "master" of the genre--the South Floridean Whackos Genre, that is--and in "Native Tongue" he provides full circle of encompassing wit, slapstick and darkly 'smirk-able' satire. Up until now I had never read a Hiassen novel, albiet the good reviews abounding on his work--saying that along with Terry Pratchett, Douglas Adams and Kurt Vonnegut Jr. he is one of the highest purchased novelists issuing books in the US of A. And, seemingly, this is an accurate suggestion. He is akin to Dave Barry, another South Floridean columnist turn novelist who won a Pulitzer Prize fundamentally for discussing booger and exploding cows. But where Barry fails flaccidly, Hiassen sharply and smoothly wins the reading audience--he is able to make one laugh. It isn't that Barry is otherwise than funny; he's quite humorous, but it is a variety of humour which is cartoonish and not lasting, whilst Hiassen's wit is irrepressible and although Farrelley-like, still raucously laughable. "Native Tongue" is an indelicately biting novel featuring the recurring Hiassen character of Skink (who makes a revival in the novel "Sick Puppy") as well as a full supporting cast of whackos, submoronic amputees addicted to anebolic steroids, psychopathically nature-fervent geriatrics toting guns, wickedly eccentric yet appealing public relations men and more. It is a witty, ironic and satirical read of a place steeped in underworld apocrypha and rains of mudsnakes. Recommended.