The WentworthsKatie Arnoldi
The Wentworths features some of the worst human beings I’ve encountered in a long time. They aren’t evil dictators or serial rapists or junkie pedophiles. No, they’re worse -- they're super-rich L.A. snobs. However, I maintain their position at the bottom of the human pile because they’re so insidiously common, and one feels as though a Wentworth or two lurks on every street in the country – at least in the more affluent neighborhoods, that is. Each Wentworth takes douchbaggery up a notch, as if they’ve all secretly agreed to see who can make the biggest case for compulsory euthanasia.
In fact, let’s just imagine the following, highly probable scenario: The Wentworths and I are together in a non-descript location. I am neither rich, anorexic, nor pretentious, so, having nothing in common to discuss, we’d all be sitting silently. Without warning, a masked gunman appears. He forces me to do the unthinkable: shoot a Wentworth, or be killed myself.
What a moral dilemma! Unfortunately, the difficulty lies not in shooting a Wentworth; hell, that’s a no-brainer. But how the hell could I choose only one? Would I get extra credit for extra Wentworths?
They wouldn’t be so bad if they weren’t so damn arrogant, but their belief in their own perfection only enhances their flaws. And flaws there are in spades. If you don’t believe me, consider the facts: There’s August, who is such an old philandering fart that I can barely write this many words about him without dry-heaving; Judith, who must survive on 500 calories a day and treats everyone around her like dog shit; Conrad, who makes Patrick Bateman likable; Norman, who is batshit insane like you’d expect from someone named Norman; and Becky, who takes Judith as her role model, so enough said there. Her husband, Paul, is okay, but their two kids are total assholes: the boy’s a klepto and the girl’s only likable because I kept picturing Isabella Hodes from Weeds. In that respect, she was my favorite character.
little boxes filled with ticky tacky
Amazingly enough, despite this collection of human scum – perhaps it would be more correct to say
because of it, I loved Katie Arnoldi’s
The Wentworths, which follows this family through the myriad of problems they encounter as a result of their own evil ways.
The chapters are brief, some only a page or so, and after finishing the first one, I was immediately hooked.
The Wentworths didn’t leave my hand until I finished it the next day. While the characters and action are at times outlandish, I nevertheless found every scene utterly believable, and I couldn’t wait to see how the family handled and overcame one problem after another. This isn't to say I'm giving away an "all's well that ends well" ending. In fact, the opposite is true; I'll only say I felt vindicated at the end.
Unfortunately,
The Wentworths doesn’t do much to break the stereotype of the narcissistic, superficial Californian. Nor should it: I prefer to keep that stereotype intact, for the simple reason that it's probably saving all of our lives. Let me explain: I KNOW good individuals live there, but maintaining that stereotype prevents me from ever desiring to venture there myself. And I cannot go there, for the simple fact that my luck is not the best. At ALL. I could go into more detail, but my point is that with luck like mine, the Big One will strike the second I touch foot on California soil. And then where we all be? I'll have single-handedly brought down the entire Western seaboard. If imagining a statefull of pricks will keep all of us safe and sound, I say prick away. So thanks, Katie Arnoldi, for keeping the country together for just a little bit longer.
In a nutshell: A pleasant, hilarious surprise that left me eager to read another book by Arnoldi.
Bibliolatry Scale: 5 out of 6 stars
The Bedwetter
