This book is such an incredibly horrible read, that i am returning my copy to the publisher for a refund. The author's writing style is more suited for the comedy stage than the printed word. Its failed attempt at humour is an insult to our intelligence. From his list of "Things we really feel depressed about" ("Russians," "Aliens," "Victoria Beckham") to this little gem, "I spent the rest of that week thinking about the challenges of dating Scarlett Johansson. Why not? I'd already met Harold Pinter" are embarrassing attempts at padding the pages with words. This useless banter is dispersed throughout the 325 page monstrosity. It turns what should have been an interesting short story into a epic failure.
I ended up trying to read the book more to see if it would improve than for the story. Actually, I stopped reading it after convincing myself that the author was trying to see how many pages i would get through before realizing the book was really an inside joke. i.e.: "i, Laurence Shorter, will write a book made up of random sentences loosely tied together and see how far each reader gets before realizing my nefarious joke's on them. Moohoohaahahaha!!!" If that was the purpose, hats off to you Laurence. Truly brilliant!!
Otherwise, it simply boggles the mind how this story made it to paper. Shame on you, Laurence, for boring us with this absurdity. Shame on you, publishers, for your blatant greed.
