Just terrible. There’s something about this book which is actually damaging to women.
The author thrives on her husband telling her she’s done a good job cleaning the kitchen, and my stomach goes into spasm.
‘My husband walks into the kitchen. He exclaims, “Wow! Someone really cleaned up in here.”
“It was me,” I squeal excitedly from my seat at the table.
“Good job, baby.” He walks over to reward me with a kiss. “It looks really good.”
“I know,” I agree, nodding. “I slayed it.”
“You sure did.” He gives me a high-five before getting a glass of water.
We carry on with our day."
From Praise, 57% in, I Don’t Have A Bucket List Bur My F*ck-It List Is A Mile Long by Ruby Rey
It’s not a skit. She’s serious. Even though she used to react to these ‘compliments’ with suspicion, she puts that down to her own inability to take praise from people, and that’s because her parents were assholes.
I could vomit on the spot.
She says she embraces her ugliness (a horrible term and idea) but she’s had surgery to counter the worst aspects of her appearance - and so, when the pretty blonde in the office makes everybody laugh, and yet our heroine’s jokes fall flat - it’s clearly because of her looks.
“Back to the present day, to me looking at myself in the mirror after the meeting.
“It’s no wonder people were avoiding eye contact. Staring at my reflection, I tsk-tsk myself for neglecting the lessons of my youth. Could I have looked more like human chopped liver if I’d tried? I wore no makeup, my hair was a disaster, and my clothes were the same shades of gray-brown as discount meat.”
From Butterface, 21% in, I Don’t Have A Bucket List But My F*ck-It List Is A Mile Long by Ruby Rey
Having read this book, I’m pretty sure the reason her jokes fell flat was not her appearance.
And all she’s doing, really, is riding on the back of her own therapist - who perhaps should write a book because it would doubtless have some content and advice - and a couple of web-based organisers who probably do have their own books.
I could cope with the lack of originality or anything in terms of ideas here, but it’s not actually funny. The writer is so sure she’s funny she’s forgotten to be funny. She talks a lot about being a professional writer which is, frankly, tiresome, and about being a comedian but the wittiest thing about this book is the title. A waste of time.