Tag Archives: celebrity

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


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…”


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.”



Here’s the Situation, by “The Situation,” with special guest reviewer

Folks, I can’t do this next review alone. I would ask Jo to help me but she tried to do it alone before me, and she’s at the hospital from a badly lacerated taste in literature.

Fangzor: And I’d help him, but I like to watch him suffer.

So, I’ve brought in a guest reviewer. In all likelihood you won’t know him, unless you’re either a mid-90’s educational DOS game fanatic (like Fangzor) or a fan of stupid youtube videos that parody said DOS games (like me). Please welcome fellow creepy library guy, Ignatius Mortimer Meen, better known as I. M. Meen!

Meen: Why hello, bookworms! I'm back in action! And after this review I'll be back in obscurity, but for the time being, you're all fucked!

Fangzor: I beat your game like 237 times, man. You should make a remake where it’s harder.

Meen: Blame the developers, snakey. I’m just a child-hating magician who doesn’t know diddly squat about computers! I tried to read a Kindle the other day and it made me so mad that I enslaved a cat shelter.

All right, Mr. Meen, brace yourself. We’ve got quite the book to get through.

Meen: Brace myself? I’ve read books that are only created to teleport kids to my evil magical labyrinth. Bring it on, bitch!

"This book is made to order, but it isn't to be read!" - Theme Song to I. M. Meen

Meen: …Oh no.

Yep, we’ve got to read a Jersey Shore self-help book.

Fangzor: That guy’s AWESOME! If he were a snake, he’d be an anaconda or some shit like that. He doesn’t give a rat’s ass about anything.

Yeah, you would like him.

Fangzor: You know I only do it to piss you off, right?

Yes. I do know.

Meen: I mean, I feel like I’m responsible for this somehow. 


Meen: You have to remember, Hellbrarian, I’m an old bastard. I knew little Mikey Sorrentino when he was just a little boy. He used to study all the time in my library. Dinosaur books, mainly; he wanted to be a paleontologist, and he knew the names of all the known dinosaurs in the Cretaceous period. As anyone who plays my game knows, when kids are smart like that, it makes me BOIL WITH RAGE! So I sent him to the dungeon in my magic book, where he was tortured by trolls and goblins for about a year.

Good God, that’s harsh.

Fangzor: Yeah, I mean, being a smart kid should only be punishable by 6 months of troll torture, at most.

Fangzor… you suck.

Meen: Well, NOW I know it was harsh, because the second some goody-goody hero kid freed him from his cell, he denounced intelligence forever… and he became the abomination that wrote this book!

You little stinker. But I guess you’re living with the burden of guilt, so I’d say we’re all justified here. Anyway, let’s dive into this review.

Writing Quality: 2/10

Thematic Quality: 0/10

Reader Interest: 3/10

Overall Quality: 1.6/10

All right, this book – it’s the literary equivalent of that pink slime stuff you keep hearing about on the news. It’s not real, it’s just wrong, and when you look at it, you want to run away. But mainly, it’s also one of the least funny books I’ve read. If you want to read a self-help book on how to pick up chicks, the fact that the book itself is trying too hard even more than you should be a red flag.

First off, the opening of this book. Because if you make me want to stab a gazelle with a pistol or shoot a giraffe with a sword in the first pages, you don’t deserve to be an author.

“Friends, bros, countrymen, lend me your ears. For The Situation has come to give you the situation.”

Meen: This picture is at least 30 times as funny as that quote. And I don't strictly speak from my pro-child-terrorizing bias.

“In my twenty-eight years of crushing it, I have come to one simple realization: Life is a battle… Some will leave the field victorious with a hot chick on their arm, while others… well, do I really need to embarrass them further by writing about them here?”

Hold on a second there. Mr. Meen, from your perspective as an umptillion-year-old virgin, what’s your opinion on this?

Fangzor: He ain’t no virgin. I know what he did with those smart kids behind closed doors!

Now that’s just low, Fangzor.

Meen: It’s a common misconception – I have never and would never sexually molest a child, considering that I think they’re UGLY AS ALL HELL!

Anyway, Mr. Meen–

Meen: Right. The Situation seems to think that the quest for success in life ends when you acquire sex. Maybe this was true for cavemen. But now, we have other forms of pleasure. Such as–

Fangzor: Hanging around in libraries to kidnap children?

Meen: Actually, I was going to say that I collect funny-looking pottery from art fairs. 

I would quote from the rest of this book, but it would be redundant. It’s like this for all of its mercifully short length. Its main points can be summed up in three bullets, preferably to Sitch’s overrated abs:

  • I’m awesome.
  • This is how you can be like me.
  • Argh I’m such a man.

Meen: This is not technically a real guide on how to get laid. It’s a guide on how to Jerseyshoreify yourself. Essentially, how to imitate, but not build on your own successes.

Fangzor: Who are you to talk if you never got laid?

Meen: Have you?

Fangzor: Nope!

Meen: Then don’t be a hypocrite, Snakey.

Fangzor: I’ll do whatever I want as long as it pisses you off!

So, as a lesson to all of you single guys out there: this is not how you pick up chicks. This, however, is:

  • Do whatever feminists tell you is okay
  • Look at women as something more than a milestone you have to pass
  • Eat bananas.
  • Don’t ask me why, just eat the goddamn bananas, it’s a trick my mama taught me.

And that, as they say, is that. Thank you for coming on the blog, Mr. Meen.

Meen: No problem!

You can go now, Mr. Meen.


Next week: Something from Amazon again