Ridiculously bizarre and deeply entertaining story about a man called Ignatius J. Reilly, who if this book were written today would no doubt be presented as an incel. A pustule on the face of humanity, he doesn't quite live in his mother's basement but it's very close, failing life and all sorts of social relationships, covering his bedroom with pieces of badly written crap because, as is always the case with this type, Nobody Understands His Genius. Monstrously self-obsessed, possessing an enormous vocabulary with absolutely no common sense, lazy, filthy, cowardly, he's a fantastic character. I couldn't feel even an iota of sympathy for him, he's so very unpleasant, but sometimes you just have to wallow in the urge to point and laugh and this hideous creation, this weaselly, self-pitying abomination of a man - the type to suck the jelly out of jelly doughnuts and put the fragments of dough back in the box - fulfils his role of target admirably.

It's very, very funny.