Ruminating On:

My Semi-Fictional Life #159 (A Rage Review of THE ROANOKE GIRLS)

Sigh… Language warning and whatnot. This one’s not going to be pleasant.

I’m so goddamn tired of the same-old, predictable shit. For that reason, among the many more you are about to read below, this review is going to be rage-y as fuck. If you manage to not get offended by the contents, I hope you enjoy this review more than I enjoyed the book.

First and foremost, BOOBS! There were so many mentions of funbags in this book, I had to recheck the cover to make sure this wasn’t written by a dude. Every few pages, in the first 30 pages, the author mentions “big boobs” or “plumb breasts” or some variation on knockers/melons/feeders/tigolbitties. I counted eight times in those first 30 pages. Everyone was described by the size of their bosom. We get it. Roanoke girls are stacked! Whoopty-fucking-do. The author goes on to space out her tit-mentioning, but only because the cast doesn’t grow. No need to describe the same chesticles over and over again unless they change, right? Right. Moving on…

I don’t know if anyone was paying attention when I first started reading this, but I mentioned how creepy it was. That was the first 13 pages. Can we say, “False start?” Not sure what I caught in those first 13 pages, but all that atmosphere dissipated like a good fart, one that doesn’t linger and upset the kinfolk, within the very next chapter. Oh, I felt uneasy later on. Don’t get me wrong. But that feeling of discomfort was for all the wrong reasons.

Next, and this is a first (paradox?), I had to delete two of my status updates because my jokes, my motherfucking goddamn sonuvabitching jokes, ended up being fucking spoilers. Lemme spell this shit out to you. I was fucking around, goofing off, as I am wont to do, and my goofiness ended up being a plot point. That’s never fucking good. Well, maybe if this was a parody, but no, it’s serious fiction. Which brings me to…

This novel (for lack of a better word) has the most unintentionally-funny fight scene at the end of it. The big denouement had me in tears not because it was sad but because it was mountainous – or, as the kids are saying, HILL AREAS!

These are the jokes, people. Fuck you, don’t judge me.

Sexual dysfunction brought on by childhood trauma seems to be popular right now. Are that many of us being molested and growing into sex-starved fuck-puppets? Is this the new us? Are there any parents/grandparents/uncles/aunts/neighbors/clergymen/pets/inanimate objects in existence who are not out here diddling their children? You’d think this world was nothing but pederasts and pedopiles and hebephiles, what with how it’s the plot or subplot of every goddamn literary thriller. I’m not making light of this topic. I have my own past and that’s none of your business. But you’d think that, with all the safe-space-seeking readers out there, you’d see less of this stuff, not more.

My point is this: I’m fucking tired of reading about it because it’s fucking predictable. Not because it’s disgusting or triggering or any other topical reason, but because I fucking expect it. It’s gotten to the point that I open up a literary thriller and think “I wonder who’s gonna be molested in this one?”

The moment the killer hit the screen, so to speak, I knew who she was, and as soon as the molester hit the screen, I knew who he was. (I called both of them in my second and third updates, which I have since deleted by request because spoilers) As soon as the red herring hit the screen, I knew who it wasn’t. There’s a long-lost-then-returned love interest. One of the characters is a downhome cop who used to be friends with the main character. (I’m telling you, folks, there’s nothing new in this book.) One of the characters is even a motherfucking V.C. Andrews cast member. Oh, you remember ol’ V.C. Andrews. Motherfucking Flowers in the Attic motherfucking V.C. motherfucking Andrews. Amy Engel attempted to emulate one of the worst word mills in modern literature. In fact, now that I make that comparison, that’s all this book is is a reboot of Andrews’ early career. Tom Cruise help us all if this shit gets popular again. In the name of Brad Pitt, amen.

In summation: Holy shit this was bad. If you’re looking for a book wherein you can predict the outcome in the first 50 pages, read this motherfucker. If you were offended by this review, damn sure skip this motherfucker. Most importantly, if you were spoiled during this review, good. Now you don’t have to read it.

Final Judgment: Contender for Worst Book of the Year 2017… and it’s only March. Fuck my life.

Many thanks to the publisher (because I didn’t have to waste my hard earned dough on this book) for supplying the review copy of this shit-fest. I think it goes without saying that this is my unbiased opinion. I understand that they can’t all be winners, but I’ve come to expect so much more from your company (Crown Publishing). Then again, good friends of mine loved this book, so what do I know? smooches

the roanoke girls.jpg

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