I love Chuck Palahniuk, but this might be among the worst books I've ever read. Maybe it's also that I don't like to read five billion clever euphemisms for masturbation when I'm riding the subway to work first thing in the morning. Lots of this book just really grossed me out, and not in an envelope-pushing way. Palahniuk still gets one star, however, for knowing a surprising amount of feminist theory (he's apparently read his Ariel Levy) and for some compelling research (who knew that Hitler invented the blow-up doll?)