Well, it's the future, and things couldn't be worse. Earth's almost out of energy, everyone's a goddamned hippie, the slang is hella retarded, and sex is so boring that the main guy turns down an orgy with six teenage girls and barely even regrets it. There is hope though: by traveling through time, the Space Federation of Space is convinced that they can find enough energy for Earth to not suck again. How? They never bother to tell us, but they do tell us that the safety of the entire "time ship" hinges on this beacon that's affected by emotions and could go out at any time just because someone's pussy is in a bunch or they got up on the wrong side of their dick that morning. That's just brilliant. I can see the final mission report now: "The Meg II timecraft was lost in an alternate future with all hands on board because someone ate the navigator's pasta salad even though it clearly had a sticky label with his name on it." For real, why don't they just blow the goddamned thing up on the launch pad and save everyone the trouble?

The rest of the story is pretty much incoherent gibberish. It's like the guy who wrote this had a brain hemorrhage at some point (I'm guessing somewhere around page 60), but was damned if he was gonna let himself die before he finished his book. Completely incomprehensible things that go down include the captain wandering around a chessboard like Alice in Wonderland, a dragon eating a gingerbread castle, a fat chick puking everywhere, and a part where it's pretty clear that someone doesn't know what the word "incest" means, even though he's using it as an important plot point. Oh, and then there's this line, just for the ladies:

That's right, gals, if you aren't sporting double Ds then Piers Anthony says you're an ugly, worthless bitch. The lowest point though is probably when the whole crew comes up with this imaginary animal and then sits around admiring the way it shits, and if you just said to yourself "How did we get from time travel to an imaginary animal shitting?" then you just got a little taste of what reading this urinal cake is like.

Fuck you, Piers Anthony. I hope a bunch of angry hotties with small tits track you down and try to fax an entire copy of this book somewhere via your ass.