This book was disappointing for some reason, although it should have occurred to me that a book filled with essays about drunken escapades doesn't make for the best reading; one is advised, rather, to participate in drunken escapades of their own. Mostly I can't believe that this is a book. I mean, really? If I wrote stories about all the times I got drunk and dragged grocery carts up to rooftops and hurled them off, or got drunk and shot bottle rockets at crack dealers, or got drunk and peed my name on a wall but ran out of "spray paint" at R-O-B, then broke down and started sobbing hysterically at the injustice of it all, would you really want to read that book? I mean, really? Is this what it takes to get published these days?

But hey, at least my escapades were funny. Laurie Notaro? Amateur, that's what.