My personal favorite to bash with all my might is Carson McCullers' waste of paper, The Member of the Wedding. Somehow, McCullers managed to make two days feel like twenty years of my life had been wasted just so I could attempt to read a novel that is more confusing than little Frankie's estrogen addled, pubescent brain. Jumping around the timeline worked for Quentin Tarantino in Pulp Fiction, but that's because he probably read the book and said "This is exactly what I DON'T want to do!" Character development isn't exactly what I would call it, because all you're focused on is that lunatic bag of scabs bitching about her brother getting married. Somehow, she managed to make pre-teen angst about as dry as geriatric vag.
I understand that when reading fiction, a suspension of disbelief is warranted to enjoy the story before you. That being said, there's absolutely no way in God's green earth I'm going to believe that she was able to pull a piece of soldier ass in a bar at the age of 12. Even if he lied about his age to get in, he's not going to have any interest in a girl of that age unless he's some kind of skeevin' pedo freak.
McCullers failed to elicit so much as an ounce of sympathy from me for Frankie's plight when I was forced to read it in high school, and my opinion most assuredly did not get any better with age. The girl wasn't coming of age, she was preparing to make some therapist's Key West retirement plan a reality. I couldn't help but feel a bit jealous of her dear Uncle Charlie because he was fortunate enough to permanently cease metabolic function somewhere near the middle of this crap, rendering him immune from this whelp's neurotic prattle. At least in "My Girl," Anna Chlumsky's character had an excuse, what with growing up living in a funeral parlor. Instead, we have over a hundred pages of twaddle that simply pans out as an ode to Sigmund Freud.
I'm steadily kicking myself in the arse for even thinking that I could stomach this crap twenty five years after it was first assigned on a summer reading list. Unlike Lord of the Flies or 1984, which I could better understand and appreciate after I had a few years' life experience, the only thing that time changed with regards to my opinion of what I consider the worst novel ever written is that this time I was free to punt it off to the secondhand bookstore when I got well and properly sick of it without risk of a failing grade. Classic, my ass.