The first thing the astute reader will notice about this novel is that the description on the back seems to say a lot, but doesn't actually tell you what the book is about. This is totally appropriate though, because as it turns out this book isn't about anything; it just rambles on and on for hundreds of pages, and to make the experience even more painful a good half of it is so clunkily written that it's literally difficult to read. Yup, this book wastes no time in sucking shit, and it's full of dumb mistakes, too. For example, it begins with this guy seeing a traffic accident on his way TO work, but in the next chapter he's late getting home because the accident happened on his way back FROM work. Proofread much, you lazy shits? And some parts are just insultingly stupid, like the assertion that, if a man is dead, there's no way to confirm who he was when he was alive, not even by showing his totally non-mutilated body to his own fucking wife or, I dunno, the guys from CSI: Des Moines or something.
Of course the dialogue is laughably retarded. "Did you know that everyone has eight great-grandparents?" asks the main chick at one point. Really? She must be a mathematical savant to have figured that one out. This comes up, incidentally, because the main chick is into genealogy (clearly identifying her as both a tiresome bore and a superficial, empty-headed twat), and this, in turn, is important (in the loosest sense of the word, obviously) because, ultimately, this is a horror novel about genealogy, almost certainly the most un-frightening thing a horror novel could possibly be about. Unless you're a huge racist who's terrified of finding out that one of your ancestors was black, I suppose. Honestly, genealogy is so fucking pointless. I mean sure, after weeks of diligent research you could very well learn that you're distantly related to Benjamin Franklin or Elvira or something, but how will this change the fact that you're currently squatting in an abandoned trailer park and spent your last income tax return on meth, lottery tickets, and an abortion? The real literary crime here though is that this entire book is just killing time; nothing of consequence happens until the very, very end, and overall it feels like it was written by someone who's heard of horror novels, and has sort of an idea what kind of shit might go down in one, but has never actually read one in their entire fucking life. Seriously, stick to genealogy, Lois Horowitz, because writing books that aren't about who once fucked your drunken flapper grandmother back in the Roaring Twenties is obviously way, way out of your league.
Oh, and by the way, it was me. I fucked her. And she liked it.
|Yep, granny was quite the dish in her day, a real Sheba|
with gams up to her neck and a chassis that just
wouldn't quit. And how. Now you're on the trolley.
Buy my books, ya piker. They're nifty; the bee's knees, don'cha know.