I must have a masochistic streak of some kind, because I have a hard time not reading rightwing populist propaganda. So, read about half of this while standing in the grocer this morning. It's pretty close to one of the worst books ever written, though it's hard to say if it is in fact the worst by Mr. Weiner (aka "Savage").
The opening concerns "the invisible marxist presidency," and collects not even one anecdote regarding socialist policy being covertly (or even overtly) advanced by BHO. The gravamen of the complaint appears to be that BHO has outsourced the US space program to the evil commies in the Russian empire. (A later chapter attempts to make the case that BHO is in fact a "naked marxist leninist," based on some bizarre hearsay from college acquaintances.)
Much of the rest is bucolic memoir from the author, completely irrelevant. The writer also likes to build elaborate houses of fecal matter, such as defining all BHO supporters as the most gullible of those who voted for him.
The title reveals the sterility of the conceptualization here, although the text does not appear to lay out any coherent argument in support of the title itself, and is more concerned with its silly subtitles (which are not evidenced or well argued, either).
Otherwise, all the normal rightwing populist hysteria is here, regarding homosexuals, immigrants, big gubmint, moslems, socialists, feminists, and so on. Not sure if he managed to malign autistic children again, however.
The book overall suffers from a form of rightwing Tourette's syndrome, which can't help but hyperventilate about anything that is outside its narrow pre-modern scope. The text is replete with scornful denunciations and dismissals, such as his radio mantra, "red diaper doper babies." Really? Is that all it is? The hippies in North Beach wouldn't let him in the drum circle? Ginsberg didn't return phonecalls?. And every time he believes that he has scored a point, we get a snarky "Do you see what I'm talking about now?" (Not really, Mr. Weiner, not really.) It won't be accused of being too subtle, that's for certain.
Recommended for masochistic lefties, Stephen Colbert's writers, and those few literate teabaggers.