Lunatics

This is the stupidest fucking book I've ever read.

How does one write a book like this? First, you take a couple of characters, that while not exactly people you can meet each day, are close enough that you can buy them as characters in a novel. Then you put them in a relatable, if exaggerated, bad situation. Then you let that situation spin wildly, and hilariously, out of control and right into a worse situation–and let that one spin wildly, and hilariously, out of control and right into another–and repeat. Several times.

If you do that juuuust right, you might come close to capturing the brilliantly wacky madness that is Lunatics.

More than once, I laughed, guffawed, choked, chuckled, cracked-up, cackled, and did a spit-take. I'm sure my wife was as glad I was done with the book as I was disappointed it was over–a day and a half of my very loud reactions to this book were little more than she could tolerate.

Find yourself a nice, secluded little spot and read this. Soon. Sooner, even.