Compulsive masturbator John Hinderaker fakes a review of a book after only reading twenty pages and then tells us that what he really appreciates in life are the finer things:
Most of the books we are asked to review involve politics, economics, history and so on. But a couple of weeks ago, we got an email that was out of the ordinary. It asked whether we would review Pamela Anderson’s new book, Star Struck. I replied in a rather jocular tone that I would be happy to review the book if they would send me a copy inscribed by Pam herself.
I didn’t start Star Struck immediately, since–don’t tell the publishers who are awaiting reviews of their political books–I’ve been reading Vanity Fair, a wonderful book which I missed in earlier years. But a few days ago, I dipped into Star Struck for a change of pace.
I’d assumed, of course, that the book was ghost-written, and that Miss Anderson had little to do with it beyond the cover photo. After reading a few pages, I decided I’d been wrong. Pamela may indeed have written it herself:
Stretching, Star reached up to push back her hair as she tried to get her bearings and she struck herself on the forehead with the chrome handle of the Colt .45 she was holding in her right hand. She screamed and fell off the dresser on which she’d been perched. The gun went off, taking out a glass table top that shattered into four-carat chunks of safety glass.
Star stared at the revolver in her hand. She’d never even touched a gun before, but here she was, naked except for a pair of Gucci boots, a strange diamond ring, and a gun welded to her hand.
What the hell was going on?
I never found out, actually, because I only made it through 20 or 30 pages.
At which point the RocketBoy had a premature liftoff.
Nevertheless, however much I may admire Anderson’s irrepressible vitality, I cannot recommend her as an author. Star Struck is quite pornographic, but it didn’t take long before I was yearning for the guilty pleasures of Vanity Fair. With all due respect to Miss Anderson, Ecstasy-soaked orgies are no match for the wicked allure of Becky Sharp.
He knew it was “quite pornographic” after “20 or 30 pages”.
As my grandmother used to say, “Bull-fucking-shit.”
Jesus. What a tool.