Ericka: what are you going to smack on next for your Jemima J thing
Wendy: I don’t know
Ericka: please please let it be about the part where her FRIENDS put her head on a THIN PERSON’S BODY in photoshop
Wendy: oh yeah! so that she’s riding a bicycle!
Ericka: and it’s a total miracle!
Ericka: since she’s always been WAY TOO FAT to ride a bike!
Ericka: because there’s no place to STASH FOOD on a bicycle!!!
Wendy: I know!
Ericka: I love how they photoshop this FAKE PICTURE of her and she’s NOT TOTALLY OFFENDED
Wendy: I know! Or creeped out.
Ericka: I would kick someone’s ass if they did that
Ericka: if they were like, “look! we made this fake picture of you! where you’re not hideous!!!”
Ericka: “aren’t you HAPPY?!”
Wendy: do you not like this book either?
Ericka: God!

If you know me at all you probably know I love to hate the book Jemima J by Jane Green. This book is ass. Have you read it? It’s ass. It’s puke. The fact that this sputum is “chick lit” is really no excuse whatsoever for the rectangular 7.96″ x 5.26″ stain it leaves on the world. It is not good. Not at all.

I highly recommend hating this book. If you’ve ever been overweight for a significant portion of your life, you can hate this book. Anyone who’s ever tried to lose more than ten pounds can hate this book. Women who liked Bridget Jones’s Diary enough to tolerate the whole irritating discourse about Renee Zellwegger’s fat can hate this book. Guys who get mildly turned on by the zaftig and sexily offered-up legs and ass on the cover can hate this book. You’re all perfectly welcome to hate this book just because I said so, but you can also hate it for yourself by obtaining and reading a used copy, presumably from scores of other people who also hate Jemima J. Or, if you only have time for half-assed hate, you can read and hate just the back cover and the opening chapters for free. Go on, take a look.

Today Rob talks about how he hates the movie Simon Birch so much that he feels like it was made especially to upset him, even though, he says, the filmmakers could have just called him on the phone and fucked with him for free. I feel the same way about Jemima J. Jane Green ought to have just come over to my house and bugged the shit out of me. She could’ve poked me and said, “It’s a shame, dove, you have such a lovely face,” and she’d tell me not to eat so many bacon sandwiches. And then sat on my couch and in between continually tsk-tsking about how bloody miserable my life must be, dropping unsolicited diet hints, and laying it on thick with the cloying Britishisms like “Phwooargh,” blathered on and on for hours about some people she knows, in pointless anecdotes filled with insipid details about their outfits and accessories and peppered with countless stupid asides about their personal habits as if I gave even half a dessicated crap about these morons or her inane gossipy dildoheaded opinion of them.

Instead, she wrote Jemima fucking J. I hated it when I first read it; I hate it today, and I plan to hate it tomorrow through Friday. It’s the Poundyblog theme for this week!