Tag Archives: book

Read it and Freak: Dollhouse, by the Kardashian Sisters, Part 1 of 2

WELCOME TO HELL, HELLBRARIAN!

Remember that deal I made with the Literary Devil? That if I died in the process of reviewing bad books, he’d have my soul? Yeah, that didn’t seem like a viable threat until now.

Fangzor: You sure about that? My grandpa tried to read a book about cheeseburgers because he was angry, then he got decapitated.

Jo: That was in the Mongoose Library of India.

Fangzor: Get out of my personal beeswax, you hot-diggety harlot!

Jo: But you told me. Five and a half times.

Fangzor: If you didn’t cut me off it would have been six, asshole!

GUYS. SHUT UP. We’ve got some serious shit to deal with today.

Jo: We do?

The Kardashian novel thingy. I’m about to read through excerpts and post my reactions, for the first part of this review. For the second part. I’ll do a formal review. If I don’t make it out alive — Jo, I give you the honor of carrying on my legacy.

Jo: So you’re passing on your eternal curse to–

You’ll like it, it’s fun. Anyway, I’ve invested in some armor and a sword to deal with this apeshiterectomy of a book.

We who are about to die salute NO ASPECT OF YOU whatsoever!

Fangzor: I’ll wait outside, out of some emotion other than cowardice.

Jo: Good luck, H. Because if I didn’t wish it on you I’d look like an accomplice. And that would mean no letter of rec.

Whatever, just get in the eternally-terribad book blast shelter. As for me, it’s go time.

“Chapter One: Kamille

Sitting in a café across the street from her family’s restaurant, Kamille Romero sipped her açai berry smothie and lifted her face to soak the sun. It was a deliciously warm day, not too humid for August in L.A. She had spent the afternoon in her favorite spa–not one of those New Age-y spas, but a serious, old-school spa run by a scary-efficient Romanian woman named bogdana. Kamille’s arms, legs, and bikini still stung from the honey-scented wax.”

“Luxuries, seriously? Ad far as Kamille was concerned, these were all necessities. Kat herself had taught Kamille and her sisters to take pride in their appearance and maintain a strict grooming ritual, including regular hair removal. Just because they were poor didn’t mean they had to be furry and ugly, did it?”

“But no, it was a superannoying text from her mother…”

“DOLL, WHERE R U?

Frowning, Kamille typed: MY SHIFT STARTS 430.

Kat replied: NO 4! GET YOUR BUTT IN HERE!”

“What? Kamille rolled her eyes. Her mom could be such a controlling bitch. Ever since she’d opened the restaurant four years ago, just after their father’s death, she’d put the girls to work. Which was not cool. At age twenty, Kamille was meant for something bigger and better than waitressing or busing tables. She just wasn’t exactly sure what that “something” might be. But her destiny was out there, waiting for her, as sparkly and spectacular as the Kodak Theatre on Oscar Night…”

“Kamille learned an important life lesson then: that money was power, and that no money meant no power.”

“(Kamille and Kass had a private joke that “PMS” stood for “Psychotic Mom Syndrome)”

“‘I think we should go with a risotto special,’ Kat was saying to Fernando. “Let’s do something with the new morel mushrooms we just got. How about some asparagus?’

‘A morel-and-asparagus risotto, sounds delish,’ Fernando agreed. ‘Let me just check in the kitchen and make sure we have enough stock. I need to get in there and start prepping, anyway.’

‘Ask Kass about the stock, she’s back there doing inventory. I think she made a huge batch last night with the leftover roast chicken?’

‘My goodness, is there anything that girl can’t do?'”

“Kamille knotted her fists, stifling several choice swearwords. She was sick-to-death-tired of constantly hearing what a saint Kass was. It had been going on for years, and seriously, who cared? So Kass had been valedictorian in high school. So she was at the top of her class at USC. So she worked long hours at the restaurant, doing everything from waiting tables to organizing the bills to whipping up gourmey fucking chicken stock like some Rachael Ray clone.

Kass was a saint because she had no life. She didn’t date; she claimed she was “too busy.” She hardly ever drank, which meant that she was superboring during girls’ nights out. All she ever did was work and study, study and work. If Kamille did that 24/7, she could be a perfect, overachieving geek, too.”

WILL THE HELLBRARIAN SURVIVE? WILL I STOP TYPING IN ALL CAPS? WILL X FIND Y AND Z’S BABY SURVIVE? FIND OUT IN DOLLHOUSE PART 2!