Keeping in character with the classy, cultured editorial staff we are, here at F we did a lot of reading this summer. So you don’t have to wade through the great land of literature on your own, we picked some of our faves and broke them down for you.
This Book Made My Eyes Bleed
Why reading Bristol Palin’s “Not Afraid of Life: My Journey So Far” in its entirety might render you autistic
This “book,” this “memoir,” is so painfully god-awful that I couldn’t read past the first five pages. (Before we continue, let’s get something straight here: I procured a copy after an office discussion about how funny it would be to read and review the book for F. Under no circumstances did I seek this trash out for my own enjoyment. Although, I’ll be honest, I thought I’d have fun reading something that was so bad, and that I’d enjoy ripping it apart and deconstructing the similes that litter every sentence — much the way that dog excrement litters the streets of Chicago).
"Not Afraid of Life" by Bristol Palin
I had to stop around the part where the single wine cooler Bristol Palin had during her supposedly innocuous camping trip with friends caused her to black out and have unprotected sex with her boyfriend, the infamous Levi Johnston. Can you even PAY people to believe that a wine cooler can make you tipsy? Let alone drunk. Let alone blacked out. Before her little slut walk in the forest, she talked a lot about snow mobiles and how in the “lower forty-eight” we call them that, but in Alaska they call them something else with the word snow in it, and how in the “lower forty-eight” we just think that’s so crazy that that’s how they get around (do we even think about it? DO WE EVEN CARE?) but it’s just life to them, oh hahahahahaha ISN’T SHE CHARMING?
I ripped the cover off so no one would know that for five minutes I tried to read it and I threw it away. And then I did a lot of really cultured things that night, like repeating over and over the five words of French I know and eating sushi with chop sticks that I whittled myself while hysterically reading Walt Whitman and only moving about the house via the five positions of ballet. I don’t even really like Walt Whitman that much.
Just don’t read the book. Don’t even look at it when you see it at a bookstore, or Target, or something. Take a deep breath, gaze out around the grand expanses of the lower forty-eight and thank God you’re not Bristol Palin. Or, someone who actually read the whole freaking book.
