This Is What Happens When You Read Moore Than One

I’ve been on a binge. A full-blown, cross-genre, genre-blind literary bender involving Jesus, jazz, noir, ghouls, Shakespeare, Christmas zombies, and infidelity in Bangkok. That is to say, I’ve been reading Christopher Moore. And then, accidentally, Christopher G. Moore.

Spoiler: I’m convinced they’re the same person, just splitting timelines like a trickster god with a fake passport and too much time in Thailand.

Lamb: The Gospel According to Biff, Christ’s Childhood Pal

If you’re only going to read one Moore (but why would you stop?), Lamb is the holy grail. It’s irreverent and sweet, like if your favorite stand-up comedian rewrote the New Testament during a mushroom trip. In Biff’s unapologetic voice, the story of Jesus’ (Josh’s) missing years becomes a riotous blend of slapstick, drugs, hookers and unexpectedly profound wisdom.. Somehow it’s tender and absurd, heretical and loving.

I laughed, I cried, I winced—because I knew every line by heart, raised in the cult from birth until a teenage pregnancy finally set me free.

Sacre Bleu: A Comedy d’Art

This one’s lush and weird. Paris. Painters. Van Gogh. Murder. Magic blue pigment. Moore builds a fever dream out of French Impressionism and it somehow works. It’s the book version of absinthe: strange, heady, maybe a little too long but you're glad you drank it. If Lamb is soul food, Sacre Bleu is a five-course meal where every dish is painted.

Noir

This is Moore in a trench coat, chain-smoking and talking out the side of his mouth. Set in 1947 San Francisco, Noir is his homage to pulp fiction. You’ve got dames, UFOs, slang that drips like spilled gin, and a snake with more brains than most humans. It’s not his deepest book, but it’s slick, funny and unapologetically absurd. Like Lamb’s drunk uncle on a bender with Raymond Chandler.

A Dirty Job

A beta-male dad becomes a death merchant. Classic Moore. This one sits in the sweet spot between funny and existentially horrifying. Death, dying and department stores. You will laugh at grief, which feels wrong but also kind of right. Plus: soul objects, hellhounds and a city that feels haunted in the best way.

The Stupidest Angel

A holiday disasterpiece. Moore crams together characters from other books (Pine Cove is his recurring chaos vortex), adds an angel with the IQ of a toaster, and tops it off with a zombie apocalypse. It’s Christmas, Moore-style—bloody, slapstick and heartwarming if you squint.

Fool

This one is Shakespeare fanfiction on acid. Pocket, the jester, is foul-mouthed, horny and smarter than everyone around him. Fool rewrites King Lear with bawdy glee and razor wit. If you like your classics desecrated with flair, this one’s for you. It's Lamb without God, Dirty Job with a crown, and Noir with iambic pentameter.

And Then… The Risk of Infidelity Index by Christopher G. Moore

So I pick this up thinking it’s just another Moore tome. Bangkok, sleazy detective, philosophical tangents, beautiful women who might kill you. About halfway through, I check the cover again. Who the hell is Christopher G. Moore?

Turns out, different guy.

Or is it?

Because here’s the thing: the tone isn’t all that different. Sure, G. leans hard into crime and corruption while C. prefers spiritual satire and slapstick chaos. But both are chasing human messiness with dark humor, linguistic flair and the sense that we’re all one bad decision from unraveling. They write like men who’ve been up too late, drinking whiskey, muttering about truth, justice and how none of it means a damn thing without a punchline.

But I digress…

Reading the Moore multiverse is like taking ayahuasca with a theology major, a stand-up comic and a noir detective in the same room. You’ll exit changed. Or at least confused.

If Christopher Moore is the class clown in a robe, playing God for laughs then Christopher G. Moore is the expat philosopher in a sweat-stained suit, whispering secrets in a Bangkok bar.

Different Moores. Same existential itch.

Do yourself a favor and head here and grab a book of his: Christopher Moore

Midnight Sin-Eater Skillet

Comfort food for readers who’ve gone Moore than one

This is the meal you make when you’re laughing at Jesus, contemplating death, wandering Bangkok alleys, and still somehow hungry.

Ingredients

1 lb ground pork or beef (or a mix—chaos prefers options)
1 small onion, chopped
3 cloves garlic, smashed
1 tsp smoked paprika
½ tsp cumin
½ tsp chili flakes (more if you’ve read Noir past midnight)
Salt and black pepper, to taste
1 tbsp soy sauce or Worcestershire
1 tbsp tomato paste
1 cup crushed tomatoes
½ cup beef or chicken broth
A handful of torn bread or cooked rice (for serving)
Fried eggs (optional but encouraged)
Fresh herbs or green onions (optional, but nice)

Instructions

Heat a heavy skillet over medium heat. Brown the meat until it smells like poor life choices.
Add onion and garlic. Cook until soft, sweet, and slightly dangerous.
Stir in paprika, cumin, chili flakes, salt, and pepper. Let the spices wake up.
Add soy/Worcestershire and tomato paste. Cook until it darkens and sticks a little.
Pour in crushed tomatoes and broth. Simmer 10–15 minutes until thick, rich, and forgiving.
Spoon over torn bread or rice. Top with a fried egg if you want redemption on a plate.

Why It Works

Greasy enough for noir.
Warm enough for Lamb-level soul-searching.
Messy enough for zombies, ghouls, and bad angels.
Humane enough to eat while questioning the nature of God.

Eat This When

You’ve read just one more chapter five times.
You’re unsure which Moore you’re in.
You need something real after too much fiction.

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