Since Ben Myers includes the word "fuck" in the title of his doorstop, The Book of Fuck, I will use it (in all its forms) shamelessly in this fucking review.  Ben Myers... Ben Fucking Myers... Where do I start?  Oh, I know:  the title.  This is perhaps the most appropriate titling of a book since, Abbie Hoffman's Steal This Book, or Tony D'Souza's Whiteman.  Replace "Fuck" with "Shit" and it would hold the record for "Most Appropriate Title in World History."  So what piece-of-fuck chestnuts of literature and culture lie behind the cover of this fucking waste of a tree?  None. 
Writing a book in a week (as Myers claims to have done) is an accomplishment if and only if the final product is worth reading, which this ass-wiper is not.  Dear readers, please understand that as I type the rest of this paragraph I will be cringing at my own comparisons and praying fervently that a pissed-off alcoholic ghost won't haunt me in my fucking sleep tonight.  Caveat sufficing, I bring your attention to Jack Kerouac's On the Road.  "What do these two novels have in common?" one might ask.  I assure you, there aren't many similarities (at least not in the quality of prose).  However, both
1.  Were written in a relatively short period of time. 
2.  Attempt to compare/associate certain music subcultures with a particular lifestyle:  On the Road-  jazz to the drifter/beatnik, Book of Fuck-  punk rock to the poor urban artist. 
3.  Unashamedly discuss drug and alcohol use/abuse. 
4.  Have three-word titles.
5.  Were read by my friend Ed. 
6.  Probably spark heated pseudo-intellectual discussions in high school hallways and on college campuses. 
7.  Only really appeal to people who know absolutely nothing about (or have never experienced anything like) the subjects' experiences. 
The main difference between these two books?  One is good, the other fucking sucks.  Sure, On the Road feels rushed at points.  One can't read it in the same way as a conventional novel.  There are, however, pages and pages of beautiful writing in Kerouac's novel.  Book of Fuck is like the On the Road for assholes and mentally retarded people.  Myers seems to consider himself some sort of rebellious, new-writer-on-the-block for completing this shit-pile in a week.  That is just fucking stupid as fuck.  People have been completing great works of art and literature under time constraints since ever, fuck-face!  That's what artists do:  produce art.  Praising Ben Myers as a talented writer for this paper-weight is like heralding my two-year-old's latest macaroni necklace as a future trend in high fashion.  Imagine every negative aspect of reading Kerouac and multiply it by ten.  Then subtract all the positives and you'll have this waste-of-effort by Ben Myers.  If you haven't read Kerouac but just loved a book like Trainspotting, you might be the kind of person who could appreciate Myers' travesty. 
I have been poor.  I have abused illicit substances.  I have listened to shitty music and thought it was great for way too many years of my life.  I have been close with the kind of people Myers writes about.  It gets old.  Maybe if I read this book as a fourteen-year-old, yearning to leave suburbia for a place where other kids wear chucks and safety pins, I'd react differently.  The truth is that this book should appeal to only the very least intelligent members of a very specific audience.  Anyone else who finds anything worth reading or discussing in this kindling is lucky that natural selection hasn't yet decimated his/her gene pool. 
Oh yeah, and I wrote this whole fucking review in 11 minutes.