That is the word that best sums up my feelings when I think about why I actually bothered finishing this book.
From the beginning, it was a chore. Rushdie's train of thought never ended up matching up with mine. Elements of his style struck me as both irksome and pretentious--namely his lack of comma-usage when listing of things in a series. The cultural chasm between me and Rushdie's post-Independence India seemed hopelessly untraversable.
Mostly, though, the book never grabbed me. I appreciate that it was trying to use its narrative to serve as an allegory for the burgeoning Indian Republic, but it didn't make me give a shit about it at any point. Most of the characters were irritating more than anything else, including Saleem Sinai, the narrator, and the construct by which Saleem has omniscience seems a little too precious.
If anyone feels differently about the book, I'll gladly respond to comments. I was definitely underwhelmed.