The cover blurb from The New York Times Book Review reads, "the jokes are plentiful and very high in quality," which strikes me as a particularly straight-faced way to say something is funny. Having read 84 pages of The Ringer, I can see where the NYT is coming from. The book, or at least the 84 pages of it that I read, is full of clever turns of phrase and smart asides, but they're the kind of thing that make you nod and say, "oh. Yes, I see," rather than actually laugh. Scheft's narrative style requires a little work on the reader's part; for example, if the back cover of the book didn't tell you the protagonist has a job as a laugher on a morning radio show, chapter 6 would puzzle and annoy you. It's not that I'm opposed to smart writing, but this is more smartypants than smart. I got the feeling that Scheft was nudging me constantly and shouting in my ear, "you see? You see what I did there?" Yes, I see. Congratulations on being so painfully hip.
It's rare that I don't finish a book, even if I hate it, but I'm old and I have a lot of unread books in my house. Since I could never get through more than about ten pages of this book before starting to feel bored and irritated, this became one of those rare times. I didn't hate it, I just found in completely unengaging.