![]() There are moments when you don’t know whether to applaud her or haul her ass to a women’s heath clinic and an AA meeting. Pregnancy and STDs worry her about as much as a hangover. The enthusiasm with which she describes a cavalcade of sexual conquests (including a steamy night with Ralph Fiennes) upsets centuries of slut v stud dynamics. But there’s also something deeply gratifying about a woman celebrating an infinite appetite for Sonoma county whites and casual sex. And there’s a sameness to her tales of debauchery. Under Wittman’s direction, Everett can rely too much on the same outrageous gestures and expression – eyes squinted, tongue jutting. But Everett can juice up and dress down most any sung, like a love ballad that she cheerfully despoils by sitting on a spectator’s face while she sings the chorus. It’s the wet and wild numbers that work best, like the Ad-Rock-assisted Eat It or Does This Dick Make My Ass Look Big? The title song, a paean to possible liver failure, contains the immortal couplet: “Still spending them days watching Murder She Wrote/ Guess I missed the toilet cause I shit in my coat.” Every so often Everett slows down for a serious number like the dead daddy anthem “Get Over You” and you keep waiting for the punch line – feeling sort of awkward and guilty when it doesn’t come. ![]() “Of course, public indecency is pretty much Everett’s sweet spot”
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