All about that Damn Dave Eggers book... you know the one.
I toyed with the idea of satyr-razing (so to speak) this treacle but that would be far too fucking demanding. My time isn't entirely worthless, after all. So's howzabou I jest jomp oan in and make wit da review.
My mother gave me this turdbursting work of staggering gutfuckedness for antichristmas. I'm considering having her institutionalized, locked away in a nursing home. I can't believe that this anemic, dyspetic patchwork husk of shoddy writing and emotional pornography is taken seriously by any literate person. This is one of those books I use to test people. If someone gushes about how this book made them cry or opened their eyes or inspired any reaction beyond disgust, contempt or gales of petty laughter... Kill them. You're probably better off without that person in your life. Because that person is an easily swindled, fucking fool.
I can just see Eggers sitting there, observing his dying mother. Tapping his pen on his forehead. Notebook in hand, brow furrowed, searching for the right word combination to describe her agony in the hippest, freshest way. If only the bitch weren't so doped up on painkillers she could provide him with a phenomenological description of her demise, agony bracketed- give him the play by play. I'm sure she wanted her son to be a success, even if said success rests solely on a longwinded, bathetic, melodramatic reconstruction of her Death.
Or I imagine him on his knees, his fist working furiously in his lap by his dying mother- moaning quietly- he has some respect- oh god, it's sooooo good... Yeah, ohhh yeah, like that baby, just like that- all the love and pity and fame that's going to come his way now that she's kickin- hey! woah, hold on, don't blow your wad yet, Dave- better cooooool it down, we need at least two hundred more pages here. Aw but hey, we can drag out the little brother once the 'rents are disposed of…
Can you hear the muted, resinous string section, the minor key cadences rising and falling? Yup, Oh MY GOD! It's The Kronos Quartet. Dave has dragged them in to give the scene a bit more atmosphere… And hey- is that a video camera? Oh my God, it's indie darling PT Anderson, or whomever else is ripping off Scorsese these days, shooting the film adaptation. But wait, just wait is that, can it be? It is!!!- It's none other than would-be novelist, hack-director, pitiable-musician, Uma Thurman impregnator and monochromatic sometime-actor Ethan Hawke starring in the lead role!!!!!!!
…A sick desire for pity and hipster cred seamlessly blended with inept, community-college-style memoir writing. Yum. Makes me wanna t bomb a Barnes & Noble. This book is a sweet lil symbol for everything I hate about my generation, my class (effete post-college, liberal-minded, spoiled, unemployable, psuedo-intellects… well, what can I say, familiarity doth breed contempt) and my country. Thank you Mr. Eggers, I find that I can get three to five more reps per set, when I think about your shit book.
My mother gave me this turdbursting work of staggering gutfuckedness for antichristmas. I'm considering having her institutionalized, locked away in a nursing home. I can't believe that this anemic, dyspetic patchwork husk of shoddy writing and emotional pornography is taken seriously by any literate person. This is one of those books I use to test people. If someone gushes about how this book made them cry or opened their eyes or inspired any reaction beyond disgust, contempt or gales of petty laughter... Kill them. You're probably better off without that person in your life. Because that person is an easily swindled, fucking fool.
I can just see Eggers sitting there, observing his dying mother. Tapping his pen on his forehead. Notebook in hand, brow furrowed, searching for the right word combination to describe her agony in the hippest, freshest way. If only the bitch weren't so doped up on painkillers she could provide him with a phenomenological description of her demise, agony bracketed- give him the play by play. I'm sure she wanted her son to be a success, even if said success rests solely on a longwinded, bathetic, melodramatic reconstruction of her Death.
Or I imagine him on his knees, his fist working furiously in his lap by his dying mother- moaning quietly- he has some respect- oh god, it's sooooo good... Yeah, ohhh yeah, like that baby, just like that- all the love and pity and fame that's going to come his way now that she's kickin- hey! woah, hold on, don't blow your wad yet, Dave- better cooooool it down, we need at least two hundred more pages here. Aw but hey, we can drag out the little brother once the 'rents are disposed of…
Can you hear the muted, resinous string section, the minor key cadences rising and falling? Yup, Oh MY GOD! It's The Kronos Quartet. Dave has dragged them in to give the scene a bit more atmosphere… And hey- is that a video camera? Oh my God, it's indie darling PT Anderson, or whomever else is ripping off Scorsese these days, shooting the film adaptation. But wait, just wait is that, can it be? It is!!!- It's none other than would-be novelist, hack-director, pitiable-musician, Uma Thurman impregnator and monochromatic sometime-actor Ethan Hawke starring in the lead role!!!!!!!
…A sick desire for pity and hipster cred seamlessly blended with inept, community-college-style memoir writing. Yum. Makes me wanna t bomb a Barnes & Noble. This book is a sweet lil symbol for everything I hate about my generation, my class (effete post-college, liberal-minded, spoiled, unemployable, psuedo-intellects… well, what can I say, familiarity doth breed contempt) and my country. Thank you Mr. Eggers, I find that I can get three to five more reps per set, when I think about your shit book.
posted by Ed Coffin at 7:46 PM
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