You’re at your birthday party and it is finally present-opening time. Your friends and family gather excitedly around you whispering, “open mine first,” and “no, mine!” Your mom is sitting in the corner with her notepad poised in determination, ready to write who gave you what in order to blackmail you later into writing thank you cards that will no doubt give you carpal tunnel. You decide to choose a medium-sized gift bag and as you start to lift up the tissue paper, you notice a birthday card stuffed to the side and begrudgingly stray from the path of present-hood due to social niceties you don’t quite understand. You open the envelope, pull out the card –– giving a small smile at whatever corny joke is on the cover –– and open said card to find that $20 falls onto your lap. Your heart pounds and your eyes water as you struggle to not take your eyes off whatever sweet sentiment is written in your friend’s illegible handwriting because despite your newfound richness, you cannot under any circumstances look at the folded $20 bill lounging on your legs.
This situation is what can be classified as a near-universal experience. Many, if not most people, have experienced this money-ignoring phenomenon at some point in their lives, which makes writing about it relatable and (hopefully) funny. Most humor works in this way –– banding together people from all walks of life by finding commonalities in the human experience.
After completing this book –– “The Idiot Girl and the Flaming Tantrum of Death” –– I can honestly say that I related to absolutely nothing from this book, which denotes nothing about the hilarity and everything about the uniqueness and creativity of the author. This is to say the incomprehensibility of her experiences added to the comedic factor rather than taking away from it.
Much like this article’s introduction, I found myself wondering in which direction the book was going. Each chapter tells a different story, with no continuity between chapters. The most accurate comparison of this book is if Gilmore Girls was told from the perspective of Lorelai Gilmore, with Rory being replaced by a 19-year-old cat. In truth, Laurie Notaro, the author, and her husband remind me of Luke and Lorelai, encapsulating the classic grumpy-sunshine trope.
Despite her comedic genius, I cannot in good conscience recommend this book without disclosing that it is sprinkled with outdated and offensive slurs. This book was published in 2009, when the offensivity of these words was yet to be determined. Her tone is not one of animosity, yet the words still hold weight nonetheless. It became rather difficult to push through when these slurs were tossed around so casually, which stripped this book of my recommendation despite its hilarity. It is also worth noting that comedy is subjective and what one person finds funny another may find offensive. Her niche humor is not to be braved by everyone, so a grain of salt is advised with this review.
