Stand-up comedian Foxworthy has made a bundle with his brand of aw-shucks, low-brow humor. Some might call him folksy. Others might find him witty. Others might not: Roseanne Barr is folksy. Jerry Seinfeld is witty. In fact, in comparison, Beavis and Butthead are witty. But those who like jokes about marrying your kin or getting too drunk to fish will be sure to find this offering just the thing. Foxworthy honors us with his down-home takes on universal conditions such as growing up, relationships, work, marriage, and fatherhood, counterbalancing it with more earthy reminiscences of fishing, hunting, womanizing, drinking, and, of course, smoking, cussing, and chewing tobacco. He shares practical jokes, locker-room humor, and plenty of scatalogical banter. But his book is ultimately uninteresting, unoriginal, and unfunny. One nice thing can be said about Jeff Foxworthy, however: in the 12 years he's been married to Gregg (his wife), he has never farted in front of her. A multiplatinum CD, several best-selling trade paperbacks, among them
You Might Be a Redneck If (1989), and a popular TV sitcom do not make Jeff Foxworthy's latest effort funny, but they do ensure plenty of demand.
Benjamin Segedin
--This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
From Kirkus Reviews
The star of his eponymous television show has hit it big with recordings and paperbacks (You Might Be a Redneck If, not reviewed, etc.) and now presents more of what was once called rube comedy. He plows the same field thoroughly worked by his fellow Atlantan, the late Lewis Grizzard, and a sort of yokel dybbuk appears to be at work as Foxworthy recounts yarns of his wayward blue-collar, redneck boyhood. Projectile vomiting seems to have been the most debonair of activities, and we are presented with enough instruction in the finer points of mooning to threaten the firmest of civilizations. What passes for Foxworthy's life story, thus far, involves fishing with granddaddy, life with oft-married mamma (a.k.a. Carole), encouragement of his sporting life by oft- married daddy (a.k.a. Big Jim), courtship rituals of Dixie denizens, and the manly art of maintaining a singles' apartment. The relationship between hunting and gender isn't scanted: ``All men delight in pursuits that disgust women. Hunting is near the top of the list,'' he says. ``You never see deer heads in beauty parlors.'' To complete the picture, add some talk about a lot of nasty relatives, a little attention to body effluents, and a discussion of the author's vasectomy. (He, like may gents down his way, is much concerned with his ``package'' and, one supposes, may some day have to be persuaded not to show you his operation.) Foxworthy, a slick Southerner who kind of likes his celebrity, provides simple fodder for his fans. The hillbilly hijinks, to be fair, are mildly entertaining, but you might be a redneck if you take this text for anything more than showbiz ephemera. (Author tour) --
Copyright ©1996, Kirkus Associates, LP. All rights reserved.
--This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.