The Times Book Review sure is on a roll: After last week's vagtastic review of all things mildly inappropriate, editor Tannenhaus keeps us drenched in intellectual salsa by taking on fatties, sex, and the worth of rock critics. Intern Alexis could barely keep her bladder in one piece. Her weekly review follows.

A Way From Home
 By Nancy Clark
Reviewed by Liesl Schillinger

We really do love Ms. Schillinger, we think she's a brilliant and funny writer, but sometimes she just brings out this little self-righteous elf inside of us. That same little elf made appearance number two when we read this here review of Nancy Clark's new novel:

"So the acute, mischievous perceptions Clark makes about relations between Americans and foreigners won't hit home as consistently as her domestic jabs, even though they're well observed, spot on and - to travelers with copiously stamped passports - delectable."

We took geometry in 9th grade, and thus were able to use the transitive property to deduce that Liesl is one such owner of a copiously stamped passport. What a globe-trotter you are! Do you want a medal or something Liesl? Or a chest to pin it on?


The Interruption of Everything
 By Terry McMillan
Reviewed by Chelsea Cain

We understand that Terry McMillan's new book is about black people - excuse us, urban fiction. As Cain puts it, this is a novel about "an upper middle class black woman struggling with female problems. Specifically, she's 44 with a 44-inch waist." That, however, does not mean that the headline needs to be "You Go on a Diet, Girl!" That shit's just borderline offensive. If you offend us, you know SOMETHING ain't right.


Big Bosoms and Square Jaws: The Biography of Russ Meyer, King of the Sex Film
 By Jimmy McDonough
Reviewed by Ron Powers

Obviously Ron Powers had to do some breast-talking in his review of Jimmy McDonough's breastology of sex filmmaker Russ Meyer. First, he refers to the "supervixens," who Meyer filmed as "strapping pioneer women, every one of them, who with their sisters dared bare their bodacious briskets for the lensman who introduced erotica to the mass-market cinemas." Bodacious briskets? Eeeek. When we think of brisket, we think of our grandmother's house on Shabbos and a lot of gas. Then Powers insists on quoting this passage from the book:

"Bell, in an outrageously skimpy burlesque costume, looking at the camera, hands behind her head, sucking in her gut and sticking out her most ample stuff. . . . I mean, she's too damned hot. . . . You know when you drink a Coke too fast and it zaps your brain? That's the feeling this writer gets, only head a little south. . . . I hear far-off voodoo drums beating in the night. And I want to ride Miss Bell like a pony, don't you?"

We've referred to the New York Times Book Review as a personification of Uncle Creepo before, but Uncle Creepo is in the house today for REAL.


Killing Yourself to Live
 By Chuck Klosterman
Reviewed by Stephanie Zacharek

Oh, C-Klo, folks either hate to admit that they love you or simply love to hate you - Zacharek seems to fall in category the latter. Take, for example, her first sentence: "Dead rock stars are fascinating, but not nearly as fascinating as Chuck Klosterman thinks he is." And ends with: "Ah! The lure of the open navel! It's a subject so vast and so deep, you could get lost in it." We just had an image of Chuck Klosterman's navel, and getting lost in it, and it smells a little bit in our room right now because we've been away for a while and it's stuffy because the windows were closed and then we just thought about Chuck Klosterman's navel again and then we threw up a little bit and then swallowed it. Now we have to take a nap.