Review: Well, it does have covers, but in no way do its loosely packed innards — musings on race, sex, and matters scatological — demand to be put between them. Just when the comedian takes a turn for the interesting (what was Ted Danson thinking when he appeared at Whoopi’s Friars Club roast in blackface?), she quite literally veers back to the toilet. There are glimpses of the intense autobiography this could have been — tell us more about those childhood trips to Coney Island, tell us more about those years as a single mother on welfare. But why reveal your innermost self when you can just as lucratively ($6 mil — ka-ching!) dispense bromides like ”Life is short, art is long”? ”This book doesn’t suck,” shrugs the jacket copy. Hey, we never said that. C