Toni Bentley’s snarktastic takedown of Naomi Wolf’s new book “Vagina” is the most enjoyable review in The New York Times since Garrison Keillor’s blast against Bernard-Henri Levy from several years ago. From Bentley’s review:

Wolf details the personal trouble that led to this study. After extensive diagnoses it was revealed that she had lost her kamikaze orgasm owing to a pinched pelvic nerve. She submitted to the implantation of a 14-inch(!) metal plate in her lower back, and now she loves the world again. Who says size doesn’t count?

She finds “delight” with herself once more, colors are “heightened,” “connections” reverberate, and her postcoital chattiness is back — and I know how much you chaps love a real Chatty Cathy after you’ve had your own little lowbrow, gutter-dwelling, four-second shot at ­immortality.

So begins Wolf’s “journey” (so many women are taking journeys these days that I am surprised anyone is ever at home), a kind of “In Search of My Lost Hoo Ha.” And, of course, yours: Wolf is incapable of not going global, pitching, as it were, from her own front yard. If we must play the euphemism game for the great female down-thereness of it all, I would vote for the little-used, but rather evocative, Lawrence of a Labia: makes me think of Peter O’Toole and his camel traversing my Sahara.

If I were Naomi Wolf and woke up to read that review in my hometown newspaper, I think I would pull the blanket up over my head and not emerge until New Year’s Eve.