This book gives all the funny.
I laughed so hard.
Tiffany Haddish’s memoirs hurt like a kick to the stomach. She pulls no punches–on the reader, on herself. And a lot of that pain, I know. Most women know betrayal of some kind. Most of us have dealt with physical abuse.
And still we find a way eventually laugh again–at ourselves, and the irony of, well, life.
Because it really is some funny shit.
Sometimes the book runs like gonzo stand-up, like the chapter about her days as a pimp–which had me rolling so hard the cat came running to see what was wrong. At the end there’s a Rolodex file of introductory anecdotes of celebrity comedians–and holy crap, she totally calls out Dave Chappelle. And once she licked Arsenio Hall’s face and he tastes like–
Oh, just go read it.
Afterward you’ll want to hang out with Tiffany and Jada Smith and get life lessons about a designer handbag with a dog on it, and walk around grinning all day about how funny life is, even when it hurts.