Max, Tucker. I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell. New York: Kensington, 2009.
If there really is a Hell down? there, those fated to that destination will have this book to read, over and over again. Seriously. How can I describe this thing? Honestly, in one sentence, it’s the escapades of a guy in his early 20s. Big deal. That’s it. Only this guy happens to be an alcoholic womanizer with money to burn and a posse like-minded friends to have tag along. The book is nothing more than a series of drunk-to-excess adventures hooking up with ditzy, drunk, trashy women. Sex described in minute detail. Reading it is like Bill Murray in Groundhog Day, only each story gets progressively worse and worse. Every misadventure is more and more exaggerated until you start to question the author’s grip on reality. Drink to the point of puking. Have outrageous sex with big chested blondes. Repeat. The most stupefying thing about this book is that not only was it born out of conquest-written blogs, but it was so popular that it was made into a movie. People love it (the blog, the book, the movie). Women (supposedly) throw themselves at Max and his crew at every chance they get. The more vile he is the more people adore him. His biggest dilemma used to be ‘which woman do I fukc?’ until he realized it didn’t matter. Both would have him.
I admit, there were parts of the book I giggled about. There were certain lines I had to reread because they were funny. Max does have a sense of humor. But, he can’t write. I spent more time cringing at the grammatical errors and implausible situations than anything else. Then, there is that repetition I mentioned before. I ended up skimming or even completely skipping parts if I thought they sounded too familiar (which ended up being half the book). The best thing about I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell is that I will be selling it back to the bookstore and getting my money back.
Some say imitation is the highest form of flattery. Well, what do you call plagarism? A friend came up with the perfect word, asinine. In my world it’s “I am not smart enough to write my own sh!t.” In my world it’s “I’m so stupid I need to take other people’s ideas and call them my own.” Colin Deslage, if that’s even his real name, fits this description. IQ of a sand flea. Or, more accurately, a sand flea’s fart. Why else would he take my book review and post it on his blog? I don’t think he’s an azzhole. I think he’s just floundering in a sea of smart people and doesn’t want to drown looking like a dolt. When you are that obtuse looking intelligent is a really, really hard thing to do.
When I was first alerted to this odd occurrence I seethed. I thrashed around with so much anger I couldn’t sit still. Not long enough to write anything anyway. Then I considered the blog Colin Deslage stole – it’s an odd one to steal. Consider the facts: it’s a freakin’ book review (a very unprofessional one at that), it’s about chick lit (which says something about Colin’s reading preferences, or maybe I’m mistaken and he is really a SHE), and it mentions my hometown, a place where few people have ever heard of (let alone visited).
What does anyone have to gain by posting something that obviously isn’t original? Sand flea fart credibility.
Anyway, the rant is over.