In November of 2016, a terrible event happened, the details of which I will not belabor, for the benefit of those around me, who could do without the profanity and histrionics that inevitably result when I talk about The Event.
I can’t even take any joy in satirizing and ridiculing the monstrous buffoon at the center of The Event. It’s just too horrible to laugh at. Comedy = tragedy + time, right? I’m pretty sure Hawkeye, said that. Not the Avengers Hawkeye, but the MASH Hawkeye, although he said it in a Woody Allen movie. Nobody was making September 11 jokes on September 12. And some killjoys are still a little touchy about the Holocaust. But the Black Death is fair game! Let fly with some puns about buboes! Give tragedy some time, people. Put the Event back in the comedy oven. It’s not done yet.
This book was, therefore, a breath of fresh air. In fact, imagine you’ve been holding your breath because you are in a room filled top to bottom with putrefying yak carcasses, the pungent, nauseating reek assaulting your senses, keeping you perpetually on the edge of losing your lunch, breakfast, and all remaining desire to live, and then someone gives you an oxygen mask. It would be nice if they’d stop dumping the goddamn yaks in here, but the fresh air is certainly welcome.
The evil clown is not mentioned, at all, even in passing, even with some oblique, fleeting reference. And yet everything that narcissistic infant sociopath represents is hilariously spoofed and skewered here. If you are seeking some humor to escape from the dystopian horror novel our nation has become, but don’t want any direct reference to the source of all these buckets full of dystopia, this might help ease the pain. Or heroin, maybe that will help. Yeah, screw it, have you seen the news lately? And it smells like rotting yak in here. Give me that fucking syringe.
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