De gustibus non est disputandum is as wrong as an aphorism can be without actually turning into anti-matter and causing the universe to cancel itself out. How can you say “there’s no disputing about taste?” That’s all there is, disputing about taste.
What there’s no disputing about is funniness. You find something funny or you don’t and no amount argument, study, exposure, intellectualizing, contemplation or torture will make you change your funny index to accomodate, say, The Three Stooges or The Taming of the Shrew.
So why “review” a book like Tim Dorsey’s Torpedo Juice (2005), one of a series of drug-addled, murder-filled, carefree romps featuring the winsome but serially homicidal madman Serge A. Storms? Look: See the close-up of the cover of the paperback I just finished reading. The crazed wind-up gun-toting hula-dancer does not feature in this Florida crime comedy — she’s a whim of the illustrator — but she surely represents the tone of things to come: cartoon violence, Serge’s twisted but compelling logic, absurd confluence of a dozen or so different plot lines, impossible resolutions to impossible conflicts. All delivered at a Mel Brooks joke-a-minute pace.
You like it or you don’t. Me, I like it. Laughed myself silly. Even bought the hat. But I will not be passing this one on to Madame Nicework.
Addendum: Me,I bought the colorful volume at a local independent bookstore. Go forth and do likewise.