Method of selection: Asked the librarian directions to the restroom. This was the book I found in the toilet.
First sentence: “Hello?” I tapped on Kitty Cavanaugh’s red front door, then lifted the brass knocker and gave it a few thumps for good measure.
Types of diabetes I came down with trying to slog through this: Type 1 (body does not produce insulin), Type 2 (body ignores insulin produced), Type 9 (only affects people who read this book, and cannibals who eat the brains of people who read this book. I did both, so now I also have Type 12 diabetes).
You will like this book if: you’re a hospice patient with nothing to do but wait for death.
Why do authors write books about normal people doing normal things and complaining about it? I know how boring life is already. I do it every day, and complain about it. Where’s the robot fellatio? Where are the Templar Knights travelling through time to have sex with you? And how long must I wait to get to the murder parts? Nobody I ever know gets killed. Life sucks! We know!
The first three pages of this are about a suburban mom and her sad lonely life raising three kids and a husband who ignores her, and the sexy cool moms who are sexier and cooler and less Jewish than her. My hope was she would bury her three children alive in the yard and then go rape the sexy moms, but she hardly did any of those things.
The publisher’s synopsis calls this book “unputdownable”, but I didn’t have any trouble putting it down, which means either the publisher is lying, or someone drove a 1/2-inch bolt directly through her palms and into this book, and used a locknut on the other side. That story would have made for a more interesting read, as do most instructions on playing billiards.
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