A young, single, and pathologically irritable black heroine knows she’s too good to be played by yet another “broke-ass, fucked-up, wanna-be-but-ain’t-never-gonna-be famous, hype-ass loser.”
That would be Willy the Weed Smoker, just one of a long line of rejected men, including, among others, Bubba the Bogus-Ass Baller, Horace the Human Ape, and Cecil the Circus Midget. The unnamed narrator of this ranting first novel freely heaps scorn on her dates’ physical appearance, egotism, revolting habits, empty wallets, etc. She wrinkles her nose at the downright disgusting places they take her, reserving her most vitriolic sallies for anything that smacks of poverty or crime. Drug addicts? Pimps? Ho’s? People who can’t afford a decent pair of shoes? Don’t get her started, especially on important s**t like shoes. She has her <\I>pri-or-i-ties straight, real straight, and Mr. Right has to be around here somewhere. In fact, he better show his freakin’ face before she kills somebody. Don’t these triflin’ s***heads get it? She wants and deserves only the best. It’s never made clear why she’s too good for this rogue’s gallery, since she communicates for the most part in repetitive obscenities, hates everything and everybody, and is clearly a whole lot dumber than the men she despises. But a girl can dream: she wants to be a singer. Her demo tape could lead to a contract, but she sure won’t be singing love songs.
Mean-spirited and unfunny.