Reading this book reminds me of walking into an art gallery to see an installation that’s been praised as beyond sublime and utterly profound by critics, who like lemmings, couldn’t admit that what they were looking at was simply shit smeared across the walls for fear of being ostracized by other critics.

This is secretly Vonnegut’s best novel.

This book is a record of its author disappearing completely up his own asshole.

I read this because it was mentioned memorably in the outstanding HBO series Barry. Sue me.