If you've got a rebuke to the literary mission of A.J. Jacobs, he's already heard it and put it behind him. He knows his wife is a saint. He knows he isn't as natty as Plimpton or Robert Benchley. And he knows that his work could be called market-ready fluff. I'm sure that feels like a day well spent at the office for some critic. To me it's like dissecting a rendition of "Happy Birthday." You may be perfectly right. You're also a humorless jerk.

To this reader, Jacobs' experiments are about understanding oneself, making life more interesting and showing the reader a good time. And I love them for it.