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As an journalist who blends subject matter next to public critique, I was curious in Jones' prototypal occupation of literary work (he has holographic more than a few 25 works of nonfictional prose.)

Newly paroled body servant Rollo Hemphill is a Los Angeles 20-something who's in concert displeased and intrigued by the celebrities whose cars he rosa parks at a five-star edifice. In an bash to stir enviousness in the miss of his dreams, he creates - and makes headlines beside - a life-like expansive dolly personifying an ageing but provocative player who is staying at the building.

Instead of backfiring, Rollo's remark lands him his daydream job, incessant lolly and booze, and a transaction to be arm candy for the actress, Ms. Monica LaMonica, whose breasts are well-nigh as irreverent as her ego. What follows is a humorous blowout involving silicone polymer and superhero underwear; the type of characters ranges from a Hungarian bellboy to a celebrity-stalking small indefinite quantity in a Winnebago.

Even on the other hand he's somewhat wretched at first, I found myself growing for Rollo, who embarks on this undertaking in the curiosity of exploit into a beautician's trousers. (Haven't we all had that urge? Regular pedicures will do wonders for any association.)

A uproarious read, My Inflatable Friend is as well a resourceful thrust in the eye at achiever culture, as recovered as America's plot with the well-known and ill-famed.

Let me warn you in advance, however, that the with the sole purpose guy who sees any feat in this copy is the mate of the inflatable toy - but it's not who you conjecture.