Most of the books I review I’ve bought myself. But sometimes publishers send me books for review unasked; other times they query whether I might like to review a book first. More often than not, I say no; there’s no point in their sending me a book I’m more than likely not going to enjoy. In this case, though, it seemed a good bet. Harry Shearer can be quite a funny guy, in a broad sort of way, as witness This is Spinal Tap. This, his first novel, is about a New York town that’s hit the skids after all the factories close. To try and revive things, the townsfolk decide to sell themselves as the remains of an Indian tribe and get into the Indian casino business.

It’s an idea that has possibilities. According to the back cover, Carl Hiaasen likes the book. So does Andrei Codrescu and Jamie Lee Curtis. (Jamie Lee Curtis?) So does Kirkus Reviews. Apparently it’s delightfully wicked satire, it leaves no sacred ox ungored, it’s droll and funny and wonderful. (Curtis says it will leave you “shaking your head in wonder and worry.”)

Now, I’m no stranger to funny. P.G. Wodehouse is funny. Terry Pratchett is funny. Lois McMaster Bujold is sometimes extremely funny. Neil Gaiman and Douglas Adams are funny. Even Carl Hiaasen is funny, though his books are so full of sex, sleaze, and tacky people (I sure didn’t invite them) that I have trouble enjoying them.

Given all that, all I can say is that I personally found Shearer’s book–well, let’s be honest, the first 83 pages–to be tiresome, dreary, unfunny, and occasionally simply disgusting. At that point I put it down and I honestly haven’t been able to make myself pick it up again.

It isn’t simply that it’s satire; I rather enjoyed Swift’s A Modest Proposal. Most of Pratchett’s output is satire. But Shearer’s book simply didn’t work for me, and there are a couple of images I now have in my head because of it that I sincerely wish I could get rid of. (I won’t inflict them on you.)

I dunno. Your mileage may vary. Me, I’d rather read Pratchett and Wodehouse.