new arrival Squeeze lowest wholesale Me: A novel outlet sale

new arrival Squeeze lowest wholesale Me: A novel outlet sale

new arrival Squeeze lowest wholesale Me: A novel outlet sale

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Product Description

“If you could use some wild escapism right now, Hiaasen is your guy.” —Janet Maslin, The New York Times
 
From the author of Skinny Dip and Razor Girl, a hilarious, New York Times best-selling novel of social and political intrigues, set against the glittering backdrop of Florida’s gold coast.

It''s the height of the Palm Beach charity ball season: for every disease or cause, there''s a reason for the local luminaries to eat (minimally), drink (maximally), and be seen. But when a prominent high-society dowager suddenly vanishes during a swank gala, and is later found dead in a concrete grave, panic and chaos erupt. Kiki Pew was notable not just for her wealth and her jewels--she was an ardent fan of the Winter White House resident just down the road, and a founding member of the POTUSSIES, a group of women dedicated to supporting their President. Never one to miss an opportunity to play to his base, the President immediately declares that Kiki was the victim of rampaging immigrant hordes. This, it turns out, is far from the truth.

The truth might just lie in the middle of the highway, where a bizarre discovery brings the First Lady''s motorcade to a grinding halt (followed by some grinding between the First Lady and a love-struck Secret Service agent). Enter Angie Armstrong, wildlife wrangler extraordinaire, who arrives at her own conclusions after she is summoned to the posh island to deal with a mysterious and impolite influx of huge, hungry pythons . . .

Carl Hiaasen can brighten even the darkest of days and Squeeze Me is pure, unadulterated Hiaasen. Irreverent, ingenious, and highly entertaining, Squeeze Me perfectly captures the absurdity of our times.

Review

“Carl Hiaasen remains the undefeated, unscored-upon conscience of Florida, maybe the conscience of the whole country. I laughed and laughed and laughed while I read Squeeze Me – until I remembered, hey, I live in Palm Beach! Oh yeah, spoiler alert – the python did it.” —James Patterson

"By the evidence of the scabrous and unrelentingly hilarious  Squeeze Me, the Trump era is truly Carl Hiaasen’s moment . . . Just dive in and have a wonderful time." —Richard Lipez,  The Washington Post

"Novelists, like the rest of us, can’t look away from the Trump administration. Unfortunately, they haven’t found much interesting to say about it. Carl Hiaasen’s thriller  Squeeze Me is, blessedly, an exception . . . Hiaasen is clear-eyed: He meets the president on his subterranean level . . .  Squeeze Me is funny, but as with Hiaasen’s best work, it’s grounded in genuine outrage over the corruption that increasingly defines American political and cultural life. And it turns out there’s no better place to invoke that outrage than the wealthy swamps of Florida." —Alex Shephard,  The New Republic

"Pink pearls, pythons and a philandering president add up to a rather unusual Palm Beach social season in Carl Hiaasen’s riotously funny new novel,  Squeeze Me . . . [Hiaasen] knows and loves Florida and hates what has been done to it as much as anyone I know of, and those passions shape his razor-sharp satirical fiction." —Colette Bancroft,  The Tampa Bay Times


" Squeeze Me is vintage Hiaasen — wry humor, social commentary and satire akin to Jonathan Swift, and all fun." —Oline H. Cogdill,  The South Florida Sun-Sentinel

About the Author

CARL HIAASEN was born and raised in Florida. He is the author of fourteen previous novels, including the best sellers Bad Monkey, Lucky You, Nature Girl, Razor Girl, Sick Puppy, Skinny Dip, and Star Island, as well as six best-selling children''s books, Hoot, Flush, Scat, Chomp, Skink, and Squirm. His most recent work of nonfiction is Assume the Worst, a collaboration with the artist Roz Chast.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

TWO
 
The Otter Falls subdivision was on the westernmost outskirts of Boca Raton. A small drab gatehouse marked the entrance. The young, thick-tongued guard said nobody named Angela Armstrong was on the vendor/contractor list. Angie said she wasn’t a vendor/ contractor; she was a specialist.
 
“What’s that in the back of your truck?” the guard asked.
 
“Capture noose. Bungie cords. Road kennel.”
 
“I meant the gun.”
 
“Gas-propelled rifle. Shoots tranquilizer darts.”
 
“For real? No effin’ way.”
 
“Doubt I’ll need it today,” Angie said. “A man named Fleck left a message asking me to come right away. Unless there’s another Otter Falls around here . . .”
 
“This is the only one I heard of.”

“Wild guess: No otters and no waterfall.”

The guard rubbed his fleshy chin. “It’s just that Mr. Fleck didn’t call and put your name on the list.”
 
“That’s because he didn’t have my name,” said Angie. “All he had was a number.”
 
Drowsily the guard shook his head. “Sorry. It’s the rules.”

“I believe you’re baked.”

“What! No way.”

“Sir, there’s a vape pen in the pocket of your uniform.”

The guard sheepishly moved the pen out of sight. “I am totally legal,” he said. His mouth had gone dry. “I got my state card and everything. The weed is for migraines.”
 
Angie smiled. “I’d get stoned, too, cooped up all day in this glorified outhouse. But at least they gave you a/c. Some of these homeowners’ associations, they’re so cheap they make the guards roast in the heat.”
 
“I can’t let you in. That’s how the dude before me got fired.”
 
“Understood. So, if Mr. Fleck calls up asking where I am, please tell him you did your job and turned me away.” Angie put the truck in reverse. “Also, tell him good luck with that raccoon.”
 
As Angie backed up, the stoner guard scrambled out of the booth waving at her: “Yo, ma’am, wait! I didn’t know that’s why you were here.”
 
She poked her head out the truck. “The noose wasn’t a clue?”
 
“The Flecks are in Building D, number 158.” He raised the gate and motioned for the specialist to drive through.
 
“Rock on,” Angie said as she drove past.
 
Jonathan Fleck was pacing the sidewalk in front of the townhouse. His wife and kids had barricaded themselves in an upstairs bedroom while the wild raccoon ransacked the kitchen.
 
“It must’ve broke in through the back door,” Fleck said as he led Angie inside.
 
The living room was neat and newly renovated. White walls and pale furniture made it feel less cramped. Fleck was dressed up for a legit job—navy slacks, white shirt, club necktie. Obviously the guy worked Saturdays, so Angie figured he must be in sales—new cars maybe, or household audio components.
 
Fleck took out a handgun, which he passed to Angie saying, “I couldn’t do the deed myself. Truth is I’ve never fired this thing.”
 
It was a Glock nine, of course, the favored armament of modern white suburbanites. Angie made sure the safety was on before placing the weapon on a hallway table. She went back to her truck, rigged the capture noose and put on some long canvas gloves.
 
“Can I watch?” Fleck asked.

“No, sir. You get hurt, I lose my insurance.”

“All right. But at least can I ask how much is this gonna cost?”
 
“Four hundred dollars,” Angie replied.

“You’re shitting me.”

“Five-fifty, if it’s a female with little ones.”

“Unbelievable,” Fleck muttered. “You take plastic?”
 
“Effortlessly.”

The pudgy raccoon sat splay-legged on its haunches, finishing a Triscuit. It growled at Angie while nimbly plucking another cracker from the box. The animal’s furry dome of a tummy was evidence of a prolonged feast. The kitchen was a wreck—the cabinet doors had been flung open, the countertops strewn with rice, raisins, dry macaroni, granola, our, pistachios and Lucky Charms. A half-eaten blueberry Pop-Tart extruded from a toaster that the raccoon had unplugged and dragged to the floor.
 
Angie noticed the animal eyeing her long-handled noose. “Sorry, compadre,” she said, “but we gotta take a ride.”

From the hallway came a voice: “Don’t you need to shoot it so they can test for rabies?”

“It’s not rabid, sir. Just cheeky.”

Behind Angie, the swinging kitchen door moved. It was Fleck, holding the damn Glock again.

He whispered, “I thought you could use some backup.”

“Back your ass up those stairs,” Angie told him, “and wait with your family.”

Transferring the raccoon to the truck was, as usual, a clamorous enterprise. Plenty of bare-fanged snapping and writhing—Angie’s trousers saved her shins from being shredded. Afterward the Fleck children emerged with upraised phones to snap photos of the sulking intruder inside the transport kennel.
 
Angie shook off her gloves and processed Fleck’s AmEx with her mobile card reader, which rejected it on three attempts.
 
“Your chip slot isn’t working,” Fleck protested.

“It works fine,” said Angie.

“Then there’s some sort of screwup by American Express.” Fleck was striving to appear more irritated than embarrassed. “I’m afraid I don’t have four hundred in cash on me. Will you take a personal check?”
 
“Don’t even go there.”

“So . . . what happens if I can’t pay you right now?”

“What happens is I re-deposit this unruly creature in your domicile.”

“You’re joking, right?”

“No, Señor Fuckwhistle, I am not."

“I went from ‘sir’ to ‘Señor Fuckwhistle?’ ”

Angie put on her gloves again. “I didn’t come here to get stiffed. This bad boy’s going straight back to the kitchen.”

Fleck bolted inside to fetch his wife’s MasterCard, which sailed through Angie’s reader on the first try. Angie promised to email a receipt.
 
After departing Otter Falls, she drove all the way to the Seminole reservation at Big Cypress. There were closer places to have staged the release, but she enjoyed the long ride across the blond saw grass marsh. It was a rare stretch of South Florida interstate with a view that wasn’t savagely depressing.
 
Angie took the Snake Road exit and continued north to an area with lots of tall timber and relatively few hunters. When she reached down to unlatch the door of the carry kennel, the raccoon huffed at her. She stepped back and saluted as the animal grumpily walked into the woods. In a perfect world, it would never again catch the scent of a Pop-Tart.
 
For a while Angie cruised slowly along the back roads of the reservation, hoping to see a panther or a bear. She didn’t get home until seven-thirty. Joel was sitting in her TV chair watching a PBS special about calving glaciers.
 
“I thought this was your dad’s weekend,” said Angie. “He asked me to skip his turn.”

“Ah. The equestrian must be visiting.”

“Actually, they’re living together now,” Joel said. “Well, well.”
 
“And she can’t ride for a while. She got thrown and cracked her pelvis.”
 
“Ouch. What’s your old man going to do for fun? Or should I say who?”
 
“She’s getting around pretty good. You want a drink, Mom?”
 
Joel fixed her the usual, a tall gin-and-tonic. He showed up every other weekend, as if there was court-ordered custody sharing. He and Angie joked about it. She felt good that her grown ex-stepson still cared enough to hang out with her. A while had passed since Joel’s father, Dustin, had divorced her. It had happened when Angie still worked for the state.
The kid had been a senior at FSU when she left for prison, fourteen months at Gadsden Correctional. On Angie’s orders, Joel didn’t visit. Soon after graduating, he moved back south and began alternating weekends between his dad’s place in West Palm and Angie’s apartment in Lake Worth. Sometimes he brought along a girlfriend, and sometimes the girlfriend showed promise.
 
“Tell me some stories,” he said to Angie.
 
“Well, let’s see. I had a fragrant morning in Margate, your basic dead opossum-under-a-porch. Next call was two feral cats behind the funeral home in Coral Springs, then a raccoon at a townhouse in West Boca.”
 
“Dumpster coon?”

“Break-in artist. Big sucker, too.”

Joel, who’d majored in business, had helped Angie Armstrong set up her critter-removal company, Discreet Captures. He’d even ordered magnetized signs for her truck, though Angie removed them because people kept flagging her down to ask if she was one of those TV bounty hunters.
 
Joel said, “Let’s grab dinner.”

“I need to clean up first.”

He pinched his nose and said, “Take all the time you need.”
 
When Angie stepped out of the shower, her phone was ringing. The caller ID showed the 561 area code. A man on the other end identified himself as “Tripp Teabull, with two P’s.” He said he managed the Lipid estate in Palm Beach.
 
Angie asked, “Did Mr. Lipid die and leave me some money?”
 
“Not that kind of estate. It’s a private compound on the island.”
 
“So you would be the caretaker.”

“Manager,” Teabull said tautly. “We need you out here right away.”
 
“It’s late, sir, and I have a dinner date,” Angie said. “Tell me what you’ve got.”

“What we’ve got is a nightmare.”

“No offense, but everyone who calls me says that.”

“Does everyone who calls offer you a fee of two thousand dollars?” Angie stepped back into her dirty khakis.

“The address, please,” she said.
 
She drove up the driveway of Lipid House and pulled into the valet line. Moments later a brawny, brick-headed fellow in a pale tuxedo approached her truck and asked to see her invitation.
 
“I have none, sir.”
 
“You must be at the wrong place. This is the Stars-and-SARS event.” The man wore an ear bud, and a peanut microphone clipped to his lapel. He said, “Please turn this vehicle around and leave.”
 
Angie said she’d been summoned by the manager of the estate. “He made it sound like an emergency,” she added.
 
Brick Head relayed this information to his lapel and awaited instructions. Dutifully he stayed beside the pickup as Angie inched forward in the valet line. Ahead of them, couples were emerging with varying degrees of fragility from limousines, hired sedans and private luxury cars. Angie noted an absence of SUVs, which are impossible to exit gracefully in formal wear. All the women wore long gowns; evidently the men had been ordered not to deviate from tuxes.
 
Finally Brick Head tapped on Angie’s windshield and said, “Mr. Teabull wants you at the service gate right away. You’ll definitely need to turn around.”
 
But Angie was too far along for that; in her rearview glowed a train of headlights stretching all the way to the road. Brick Head attempted to create a gap in the line, but the hunched white-haired driver of the Jaguar glued to Angie’s bumper refused to yield, defiantly rolling up his window when the security man approached.
 
The procession moved slowly toward the portico, where an elaborate ice sculpture spelled out “Stars for SARS!” above a foaming neon-blue fountain. Brick Head slipped into the shadows as Angie’s pickup—caked with swamp mud from the raccoon transport— began attracting comments. When she braked to a stop beside the ice sculpture, the valets reacted with wary reserve. None ventured forward, so Angie cranked up the radio and waited.
 
A person that could only be Tripp Teabull appeared, roughly shoving one of the valets toward the truck. As soon as Angie stepped out, Teabull hustled her away from the curious guests.
 
On the veering golf-cart ride through the topiary, she asked, “Who are tonight’s ‘stars’?”
 
“Pardon me?”

“I know SARS is the disease, but who are the stars?”
 
“Technically SARS is not a disease, it’s an illness,” Teabull said. “The stars? Well, let’s see—Dr. Oz, Jack Hanna, Ann Coulter, and a former Mrs. Ron Perelman. They’re all on-site this evening.”
 
Angie whistled. “ That is a recipe for crazy.”

Teabull parked beside a pond that was dimpled by cruising goldfish. Instead of yellow crime tape, purple velvet ropes had been strung through brass stanchions to secure the area to be avoided. Patrolling the perimeter were Brick Head and several other body- builder types. At Teabull’s command, one of the guards unclipped a segment of the cordon so that Angie and the caretaker could enter. They crossed a soft flawless lawn to a corner of the property illuminated by triangulated mobile floods. The powerful white beams were fixed high in a lush old banyan tree.
 
Teabull pointed needlessly with his own puny flashlight. “See?”

“Impressive,” Angie said.

“How quickly can you get that thing out of here? We’ve promised the guests a nighttime croquet match. The glow sticks are already fastened to the mallets. Where’s the rest of your team?”
 
“I don’t have a team, sir.”
 
Teabull gave Angie the same up-and-down she always got, being female, five-foot-three and barely a hundred pounds. Usually she didn’t need assistance on a job. This time would be different.
 
She said, “I’ll come back in the morning with some help. Meanwhile don’t let that sucker out of your sight.”
 
Teabull blanched. “No, we can’t wait! Whatever needs to happen, make it happen now.”
 
Angie was staring up at one of the largest pythons she’d ever seen, and she’d seen some jumbos. This one had arranged its muscular length on a long horizontal limb. The reptile was deep into a post- meal stupor; a grotesque lump was visible halfway between the mid- section and tail.
 
“Anybody missing a goat?” Angie asked.
 
“Mauricio will help you handle this,” said Teabull, and introduced the head groundskeeper.
Mauricio looked as if he’d rather be in the front row at a German opera. He told Angie that one of his mowing crew had spotted the giant snake in the tree that afternoon.
 
“It hasn’t moved an inch since then,” he said.

“We’re hoping the damn thing is dead,” Teabull added anxiously.

“Oh, it’s the opposite of dead,” Angie informed him. “It’s digesting.”
 
The trunk of the ancient banyan presented a dense maze of vertical roots. Angie wasn’t wearing the right shoes for such a slippery climb.
 
“I’ll need an extension ladder,” she told Mauricio, “and a pistol.”
 
From Teabull: “Absolutely no gun re at this event!”

“Well, we’re looking at about eighteen feet of violent non-cooperation,” Angie explained. “The recommended approach is a bullet in the brain.”
 
“Hell, no! You’ll have to do it another way.”

“Then you will have to find another wrangler.”

The band had started playing—Cuban music, a well-meaning tribute to the Buena Vista Social Club. Soon the guests would be twirling drunkenly all over the grounds. Teabull wore the face of a climber trapped on a melting ledge.
 
“Five thousand cash,” he whispered to Angie. “But we’re running out of time.”
 
Angie put a hand on Mauricio’s shoulder and said, “Sir, would you happen to have a machete?”

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Top reviews from the United States

swanduck
1.0 out of 5 starsVerified Purchase
No real story
Reviewed in the United States on August 30, 2020
It was page after page of sophomoric jabs at Trump. For those that like trump, you will hate it, for those that hate trump, you will get bored agreeing and then waiting for a story to grab you, and for those of us that just read to enjoy life and maybe chuckle at all the... See more
It was page after page of sophomoric jabs at Trump. For those that like trump, you will hate it, for those that hate trump, you will get bored agreeing and then waiting for a story to grab you, and for those of us that just read to enjoy life and maybe chuckle at all the multi millionaire self absorbed politicians, you will end up feeling like you are reading a TMZ printout when all you wanted was a good story. There isn''t a story, I normally fly through all of his books but jeez, I didn''t care about any of these characters, they could have all been strangled and I would have been ok. All those pages just to say Skank let out some snakes for a prank. Please don''t bother, go reread one of his previous books
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Richard B. SchwartzTop Contributor: Philosophy
2.0 out of 5 starsVerified Purchase
Profoundly Disappointing.
Reviewed in the United States on September 3, 2020
I have read all of Carl Hiaasen''s adult novels, including the three co-authored novels from the outset of his career. I have also taught his wonderful novel DOUBLE WHAMMY for years. Unfortunately I found SQUEEZE ME to be a profound disappointment. CH still has the... See more
I have read all of Carl Hiaasen''s adult novels, including the three co-authored novels from the outset of his career. I have also taught his wonderful novel DOUBLE WHAMMY for years. Unfortunately I found SQUEEZE ME to be a profound disappointment. CH still has the ability to create hilarious set pieces based on popular culture in its crassest forms but I had to force myself to read this novel to its conclusion.

There are two principal problems. The first concerns the plot. The plot is the once-fresh notion that an ex-governor of Florida left the office and lives as a modern Tarzan in the Everglades or some other increasingly-spoiled spot. From there he takes revenge on encroaching ''civilization'' by unleashing violence upon it. That violence sometimes takes the form of ''nature finding vengeance'', in this case a set of nasty and grotesquely out-sized Burmese Pythons finding their prey among the blue-hairs of West Palm. The (only) likeable character among the principal dramatis personae is one Angie Armstrong, a former vet who was imprisoned for sticking a poacher''s hand in an alligator''s mouth. It is Angie (now a wildlife controller) whose job it is to catch the pythons. Her relationships with other characters are little more than skin deep and the meandering plot never focuses on her to any degree that could be characterized as engaging or successful. We basically have a set of linked events concerning largely-unattractive characters that are eventually resolved in a completely predictable fashion. The only redeeming facet of the story is the reappearance of ex-Governor Clinton (''Skink'') Tyree''s driver, Jim Tile. Unfortunately, Jim is aging and ill. While the first is inevitable the second is unnecessary. Jim deserves better.

The reason for the failed plot is the fact that the novel''s principal thrust is to punish Donald Trump for living in Carl Hiaasen''s state (and for being Donald Trump). While he is never named specifically (both he and Melania are identified by their Secret Service nicknames) there is no doubt that the Trumps are CH''s principal subject. The book is ''satire'' but satire has its own rules and protocols and it usually results in a misfire if the satiric object is attacked for reasons that are not commensurate with reality. For example: DJT is completely vulnerable with regard to the color of his skin and his (here-imagined) proclivity for top-of-the-line tanning beds. Here, however, he is portrayed as fatter than William Howard Taft (who generally topped the Donald by around 100 pounds) and guilty of continually misspeaking in a manner that exceeds the failings of Mrs. Malaprop. Again, DJT has a recognizable accent and a driving tendency toward hyperbole, but he generally gets the names straight and has a facility at remembering specific details. He is also portrayed as an endless attacker of decent, upstanding illegal immigrants and CH''s ridicule of DJT''s identification of some illegals via gang numbers gives the impression that MS-13 is a collection of misunderstood boy scouts. The First Lady is portrayed as a libidinous pursuer of a Secret Service agent with an Anglo name who is actually an Arab. This crosses multiple lines and--worst of all in the Hiaasen universe—it is in no way clever or funny. Satirists always have a challenging task at hand, but even the most punitive satirist (satire generally being classified as punitive or persuasive) cannot afford to appear mean-spirited, vindictive and cruel for cruelty''s sake.

It is also a good general rule for satirists that they attack a ''common'' target, one who is judged to be deserving of satire by the vast majority of readers. To antagonize one-half of the potential audience from the get-go is seldom a shrewd move.

Bottom line: while CH still has some solid novelistic chops his political animus gets the best of him here and results in a novel that many will find flawed as a work of art and offensive as an exercise in scattershot venting. CH is a hard-hitting journalist with a vastly different ''persona'' (qua journalist) than his laugh-out-loud ''persona'' as a novelist. Here he gets his own lines crossed and appears more like a screeching denizen of CNN than a tough journalist/genial novelist who keeps his roles appropriately separated.
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sallie waters
1.0 out of 5 starsVerified Purchase
Don’t bother
Reviewed in the United States on August 30, 2020
This can’t be the real Hiasson. I can only believe someone else wrote it. What a disappointing read. Weak plot, little humor, mostly just mean spirited political bashing.
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Kelly Allen
5.0 out of 5 starsVerified Purchase
Just What We Need Now
Reviewed in the United States on August 26, 2020
Thank you, Carl Hiaasen. I forgot how wonderful it feels to laugh out loud while reading a book. The usual suspects are here: loony Florida characters, political satire, corruption, and snappy snappy dialogue. The main characters are sassy and sexy — I have already cast a... See more
Thank you, Carl Hiaasen. I forgot how wonderful it feels to laugh out loud while reading a book. The usual suspects are here: loony Florida characters, political satire, corruption, and snappy snappy dialogue. The main characters are sassy and sexy — I have already cast a Holly Hunter type for Angie. Just read it. It’s a good time, full of beautiful description, a tight plot, and unpredictable twists. Hiassen is following in the footsteps of the great political satirists who served their country by poking holes in the bloated nonsense created by the rich, powerful, and stupid — sometimes all in one.
243 people found this helpful
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Patrick Schoenfelder
5.0 out of 5 starsVerified Purchase
A Timely Return to Form, so Enjoy the Laughter
Reviewed in the United States on August 30, 2020
I have been a huge fan of the author since his first solo with "Tourist Season." However, I would have said that he had reached his peak someplace around "Double Whammy," "Skin Tight," and "Native Tongue," and had been doing the same thing over and over since --... See more
I have been a huge fan of the author since his first solo with "Tourist Season." However, I would have said that he had reached his peak someplace around "Double Whammy," "Skin Tight," and "Native Tongue," and had been doing the same thing over and over since -- auto-plagiarism being common enough (looking at you, Jagger and Richards,) and a good way to produce successful, if unoriginal, work.

This book is a welcome return to earlier form. The characters are fresher and more complex, the satire more sharp-toothed, the irony more profound. Not to mention that the book contains many, many laugh-out-loud moments. Only the obligatory re-appearance of Skink takes us back to well-trod ground.

Happy to see this happen, and recommend the book highly.

It is, of course, clear that, like dozens if not hundreds of other comedy creators, the existence of Donald Trump has been a major inspiration for the author.

So if you are an admirer of Mastodon -- er, Trump -- you will not like this book at all. Save your money to buy another red cap.
186 people found this helpful
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Marcia
1.0 out of 5 starsVerified Purchase
"humorous" excuse for hate-mongering and character vilification.
Reviewed in the United States on August 31, 2020
I have read and mostly enjoyed ALL of Hiaason''s books. When I started this Squeeze Me book,I had no idea the cheap shots and disgusting rhetoric it contained.Just another example of unhinged mentality at work. I will never read another Hiaason book as I don''t want to be... See more
I have read and mostly enjoyed ALL of Hiaason''s books. When I started this Squeeze Me book,I had no idea the cheap shots and disgusting rhetoric it contained.Just another example of unhinged mentality at work. I will never read another Hiaason book as I don''t want to be ambushed by obvious bias and bile!
185 people found this helpful
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JOANNE MANSELL
5.0 out of 5 starsVerified Purchase
Laugh out loud funny!
Reviewed in the United States on August 28, 2020
Carl Hiaasen has written his best book yet. His hilarious descriptions of South Florida’s absurdities and the almost believable capers of our illustrious leader make this a “don’t miss it” treasure.
120 people found this helpful
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Robert James Vandevoort (Show Low, Arizona)
1.0 out of 5 starsVerified Purchase
Goodbye Carl Hiaasen!
Reviewed in the United States on September 8, 2020
Palm Beach is not a quiet place, now that it is the home of the Winter White House. Society is excited and there is no shortage of charity events. At one event a wealthy woman disappears. No one sees her leave. No cameras recorded her leaving. The following day Angie... See more
Palm Beach is not a quiet place, now that it is the home of the Winter White House. Society is excited and there is no shortage of charity events. At one event a wealthy woman disappears. No one sees her leave. No cameras recorded her leaving. The following day Angie Armstrong is called to the place where the event was held. Landscapers discovered a python in a tree. A very large python. Angie’s specialty is retrieving large animals, dangerous animals from places they should not be. She is very good at what she does.

Angie chopped of the head of the python and while removing the body, she notices a large lump in the snake. The python evidently ate something big. Yes, soon it is learned that it was the wealthy missing society woman, who is in the snake. Soon more pythons invade Palm Beach, and Angie is in the hunt to learn why.

This reader has long enjoyed the novels of author Carl Hiaasen. He has all his first editions. They were funny with great characters. This reader just finished the just released “Squeeze Me”. This is the last novel that this reader will read from this author. It started great, but soon it became a constant reviewing of Hiaasen’s hate for President Trump and the First Lady. It is a little hard to read the constant hateful descriptions of the president and to indicate that the First Lady is a woman of low morals.

This reader has several authors that he enjoys, who have different political beliefs. Those authors might express their beliefs on Facebook, which is fine. What they do not do, is express their political beliefs in their novels. One has to respect authors of this caliber. Carl Hiaasen is not one of them. “Squeeze Me” is trash. Don’t waste your money.
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Top reviews from other countries

Paris
4.0 out of 5 starsVerified Purchase
Great, as ever.
Reviewed in the United Kingdom on September 14, 2020
I think I’e read all Carl Hiassen’s adult books. Love them and this is no different. Delighted he is writing for adults again. Great skill to write about serious stuff with such comedy and wit. Others have alluded to the plot, so I will not repeat other than to say if you...See more
I think I’e read all Carl Hiassen’s adult books. Love them and this is no different. Delighted he is writing for adults again. Great skill to write about serious stuff with such comedy and wit. Others have alluded to the plot, so I will not repeat other than to say if you are a Trumpian, I doubt you will enjoy this. I cannot see a Trump fan reading a CH book, so perhaps an unnecessary warning. I think CH is well-known enough that he is rarely read by that contingent. I liked Angie Armstrong, a great character, but CH usually does give women good roles; great to see Skink back again, the ultimate eco-warrior, long before they were commonplace. Great fun, serious points well-made. Just sorry to have read it so quickly, probably a long wait for the next treat.
9 people found this helpful
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Richard Latham
5.0 out of 5 starsVerified Purchase
The best of 2020 grounded in reality, dropping in fun!
Reviewed in the United Kingdom on December 21, 2020
At last a book for our times. Brilliantly satirical and outrageously funny. It uses all known hand gestures to give the finger to 2020. Finally a book written with Covid 19 as a character but diminished to a bit part player as the author’s more contagiously mind plays riot....See more
At last a book for our times. Brilliantly satirical and outrageously funny. It uses all known hand gestures to give the finger to 2020. Finally a book written with Covid 19 as a character but diminished to a bit part player as the author’s more contagiously mind plays riot. Those familiar with Carl Hiaasen’s body of work will know his literary creations are both realistic and larger than life. The disappearance of an elderly woman from a benefit gala is the start of the mayhem. Weaving reality with “fake news” it has wonderful fun with a Winter White House in Florida where the President and First Lady lead quite separate lives. Within this magical spitting image portrayal minus the latex anything goes. However, enter the star of the novel one Angie Armstrong a feisty, no-nonsense wildlife expert. She is a one woman business to capture and relocate animals straying into commercial premises and private homes. She has her work cut out when snakes take centre stage. Like me you will stifle laughter in public until the author in another throw away line has you reduced to a line of emoji LOL. The issue of snakes on the sidewalk is a problem in South Florida but watching real life bounty hunters capturing pythons in CBS news reports could not have you daydreaming this amazing storyline. Inventive, original and murderously funny. From stalking and intimidation, through petty crime and people smuggling. Dripping wealth with political sway to Political poverty and false tans. Some books are just a delight to read. This author never disappoints and when he has an unique character to unleash from his previous books you know you are reading a gem of a novel. The year is coming to a close; many will want to quickly move on. This is one novel they will not want to miss out on as it refocuses life to the things that matter, helps us see the sun behind the rain clouds and transports us beyond the here and now. We might not have the forensic skills of such fine satire, to write such wonderful lines, but while we can read we can all be delighted and entertained in full measure. One of the very best of 2020.
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Lagoon
5.0 out of 5 starsVerified Purchase
Cutting. But so much fun.
Reviewed in the United Kingdom on December 2, 2020
As with the best Hiaasen books, it’s all about the characters. The wackier the better and they don’t come any more outlandish than those of the sunshine state. Squeeze me is outrageous, absurd and very naughty. Yes, it rips into the soon to be ex president of The United...See more
As with the best Hiaasen books, it’s all about the characters. The wackier the better and they don’t come any more outlandish than those of the sunshine state. Squeeze me is outrageous, absurd and very naughty. Yes, it rips into the soon to be ex president of The United States. Being a public figure means being fair game and Presidents are no exception. When the President in question here is so concerned about his public profile, he may even be flattered by Hiaasen’s attention. Whether you have opinions one way or another about the outgoing POTUS, there is simply no getting around the fact that the man is far beyond anything that satire could do; be that in the form of a fictional novel, a book or, more likely, a tweet. Politics aside, the leading lady here is a steal. Would you want to make an enemy of a pest controller? Fancy waking up with a bucketful of cockroaches in your bedroom or a rat in your larder? Unpleasant. Then think what wildlife Florida offers. As they say, don’t even go there. Biting, fantastical and probably far too close to the truth. Hiaasen can still deliver.
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Amazonian Customer
5.0 out of 5 starsVerified Purchase
Not all snakes are reptiles
Reviewed in the United Kingdom on January 22, 2021
Squeeze Me starts when a rich widow goes missing at a charity fundraiser. The event took place in Palm Beach, near to the Winter White House where Mastodon and Mockingbird (the Secret Service names for POTUS & FLOTUS) are frequently in residence. Carl Hiaasen books usually...See more
Squeeze Me starts when a rich widow goes missing at a charity fundraiser. The event took place in Palm Beach, near to the Winter White House where Mastodon and Mockingbird (the Secret Service names for POTUS & FLOTUS) are frequently in residence. Carl Hiaasen books usually have a protagonist who likes animals rather more than they like most people. This time we have Angie Armstrong, the local wildlife wrangler. She''s a really likeable no-nonsense, down to earth sort, and I hope we see more of her in the future. It''s not biting political satire but Carl Hiaasen does have a lot of fun with his story, poking fun at the least statesmanlike president ever. The surreal events revolve around a crazed stalker, missing jewels, a stripper masquerading as a nutritionist, fake news about immigration, enormous pythons and tanning bed disasters. It''s a wild ride, although compared to some of his other books the madness is somewhat toned down, and it''s all the better for it. Finishing Squeeze Me on the final day of Trump''s presidency was a delightful coincidence.
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P. G. Russell
4.0 out of 5 starsVerified Purchase
Go Mastodon!
Reviewed in the United Kingdom on October 4, 2020
This man is exactly the right antidote to 2020''s gloom and doom, and its political correctness. No spoilers here - you either already know Hiaasen''s Florida and its loony/venal inhabitants, or you will have to take my word for it - just a warning word - if you are a Txxxp...See more
This man is exactly the right antidote to 2020''s gloom and doom, and its political correctness. No spoilers here - you either already know Hiaasen''s Florida and its loony/venal inhabitants, or you will have to take my word for it - just a warning word - if you are a Txxxp supporter, keep off!! The only reason for four instead of five stars by the way - is that it doesn''t quite get above my favourite - "Skinny Dip".
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