“Jesus Christ went by the name Jesus and was only called “Geez” by his closest friends.”

HEY! DO YOU LIKE TO BE SHOUTED AT BY BOB ODENKIRK AND HIS FRIENDS? BECAUSE BOY HOWDY, DO I HAVE THE BOOK FOR YOU!

Bob Odenkirk is one of the greatest shouters of all time. No one can bellow DAMN IT quite like him- a skill he’s been sharing with us for 30 years. When he isn’t the one yelling, he is busy writing shouts upon shouts. He is responsible for Chris Farley’s Matt Foley- you know, they guy in a VAN down by the RIVER, after all. He and David Cross gave us  Mr. Show, one of the greatest sketch-comedy shows of all time. He’s also responsible for A Load of Hooey, a very short collection of very short scenes, sketches, and jokes. If you pick up the physical copy you also get to enjoy illustration by Tony Millionaire and chris c. (not a typo- that’s his style), but as delightful as their artwork is I MUST (look! more shouting!) recommend the audio-book.

Odenkirk is joined by his traditional coterie of comrades: David Cross, Jerry Minor, Brian Posehn, Jay Johnston, and another champion-level shouter, Paul F. Tompkins. Tompkins steals the show with some truly zany blustering throughout the recording. He’s out there. He’s also joined by Megan Amram; you may know her as a mastermind of Good Place food puns, and in Hooey she not only provides her spoken voice, but also a written introduction disguised as an etiquette manual.

Hooey is full of Odenkirk hallmarks: idiot politicians, horny old people, Jesus (and friends!), hating on the Beatles, and mis-credited “famous” quotes. I don’t think this is the best way to introduce yourself to the land of Odenkirk if you are not yet familiar, but if you are already a fan you will be delighted- but only briefly. This collection is VERY short. The audio-book clocked in at just over two hours (save your audible credits! check this out of your local library!) and man, it’s just too short. I wish there was more. Odenkirk breaks from the script during his “about the author” and “thanks” sections at the tail end, which provides a sweet salve but does not quite heal the burn. The three-star rating is soley based on how eensy weensy this adventure was.

Come for the shouting, stay for the poetry. I’ll let him take the lead:

“I was born in Berwyn, Illinois. At the time, the doctors declared, with deadpan gravitas, “Boy, six pounds, eight ounces.” I was circumcised and remain so, unable or unwilling to grow a fresh foreskin in the years since. Unable, actually, as I have tried—I’ve used creams and pills and all manner of massage, but it’s no use. Fresh foreskin forsakes me, it foils me, it fails to flower on the face of my glans. And that’s the final bit of poetry in this book.”