Disappointing! Poehler complains about how hard it is to write a book many times, which is annoying, but I can't see how it would be hard to write a bad book. It's so obvious she was forced to do this, it's written from a bad place and I felt that bad place the whole time I was reading it. Poehler basically links lazy (she frequently says "I'll tell you about that later" which means she doesn't know how to tell a story) and shallow ("I don't remember anything about SNL so I'm not going to write anything") anecdotes with terrible filler. Her advice is painfully obvious. You would think with a title like Yes Please Poehler would make a statement of some sort. But I didn't really take anything away. She shoots off lists of details about people she's worked with in the most thoughtless, uninteresting way I could possibly imagine. I almost thought, "are you mad at Tina Fey? Because she wrote so much about you, and you've done a half-assed job paying any respect to her." 
 I enjoyed Poehler's childhood stories, sometimes. (She goes on for like 10 pages about this one time her friend and her handcuffed each other in school one day.) And every so often, she reveals beautiful moments when she actually slows down and stops name-dropping and barfing on the pages. Those moments... watching the moon with her sons, "time travel," and the occasionally perfectly plucked set of words to describe a scene, make the book bearable? Maybe not. I wanted so much more from this book. 
 Amy Poehler told us she did not have time to write a book, and she clearly did not. Nobody should have made her.