Not witty, not hilarious, not funny (wickedly or otherwise), not believable, not riveting, not thoughtful, not superbly written, not razor-sharp, not savvy, and definitely not worth reading. The prose is plodding. The characters are utterly unsympathetic and unbelievable. The references to Desmond Morris, Casablanca, etc., are pitiful in their cut and paste awkwardness. And somehow, the plot manages to be both contrived and predictable. Jim Lehrer, Michael Lewis, Larry Gelbart, Judy Woodruff, Gail Sheehy, and Christopher Hitchens should all be ashamed of lending their good names to the promotion of this dreary dreary book, regardless of how good a friend Tarloff or his wife might be. The only one of of the group that came close to the truth in her jacket blurb was Woodruff. If in calling it the "ultimate Washington novel," she's referring to the fact that in D.C, too often who you know is more important than what you know, then she's right on the money.