Being a New York Times book critic means balls on the wall pressure 24/7. But I do get to read some outstanding works. When my editor told me to review “Rosa Parks: A Life” by esteemed bald Caucasian biographer Desmond Winters, I immediately pitched a pants-tent. I picked up my copy, sat at my favorite table at Arby’s, and got to work. After the first thirty pages, though, my flesh sword was quickly re-sheathed. And it had nothing to do with the Jalapeno Sidekickers I had just demolished. I thought, ‘What the fuck, Mr. Winters? This is terrible, you hack.’ Rosa deserved better. I screamed at my waitress, searching for an answer, “Where’s the pizzazz, you punk bitch?”
Sure, I was asked to leave. But literary justice must be served, even if my Jamocha shake never was.
Bottom line: this book is four hundred pages of boring shit vomit. The kind of shit that you watch on the History Channel to help cry yourself to sleep, when your wife isn’t home, but when she’s not far enough away to order a troupe of plus-sized strippers to your house. You know? I’d rather be caught rubbing one out in a restaurant booth again than be caught reading this garbage.