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Chicken Inspector No. 23
Dust jacket art by Lawrence Ratzkin. Thirty three pieces, all except eight appearing in The New Yorker, published originally between 1961 and 1965.
255 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 1966
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About the author
S.J. Perelman
104 books98 followersSidney Joseph Perelman, almost always known as S. J. Perelman, was a Jewish-American humorist, author, and screenwriter. He is best known for his humorous short pieces written over many years for The New Yorker. He also wrote for several other magazines, as well as books, scripts, and screenplays.
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Displaying 1 - 5 of 5 reviews
June 22, 2017
Ah, the Mixing of Drunken Memory and Thwarted Desire
Like Woody Allen's earlier, funnier stuff, only earlier and funnier than that.
This is the type of book that you want to lend a friend, but know you'd either never see it again or your friend would stop returning your calls (the aural version of avoiding eye contact Sundays after church on main street), even as they worry and wonder where you went wrong, where, exactly, your path diverged from their spoonfed idea of the straight, their media-approved mental-picture (a snapshot of sorrow) of the narrow.
"He's standing outside, Harry."
"It's not really him, anymore, Sheila. We talked about this."
"But...it's so very dark. And it's started to rain. It's raining."
"Close the curtains and come back to bed."
"Give me just one more minute. One more sad minute."
"OK, but, hey, hey! Stop pressing yourself against the glass, and maybe wrap a towel around yourself?"
"..."
"Fine. Fine. I'll join you. Gosh your right. It is sad. But I think he's asleep now."
"Should we bring him in? Oh, he'll get soaked. He'll catch his death of cold."
"Hell no! It could be the ol' Trojan Horse ploy all over again. We step out of the room, he'll count to one hundred, click open an eye, smile to himself, tip-toe to the bookcase and walk out of the house with Chicken Inspector No. 23. Yes, it's all very clear to me, now, Sheila. He just wants to take his book back. And by God, the Petersons do not give back books! Never have and never will. Let him catch his death of cold, it'll serve the bastard right."
I mean, you were never going to be numbered among the masters of high finance, anyway. You were never going to be a champion middleweight world-beater, a secret keyholder to the doors that lead into inner circle. So, y'know, might as well -- if you can get somebody to lend it to you, find it for you, thieve it for you from the Marrakesh marketplace (overturning melon carts and angering turban merchants) -- read this book and escape the daily drear, the nightly fear.
Like Woody Allen's earlier, funnier stuff, only earlier and funnier than that.
This is the type of book that you want to lend a friend, but know you'd either never see it again or your friend would stop returning your calls (the aural version of avoiding eye contact Sundays after church on main street), even as they worry and wonder where you went wrong, where, exactly, your path diverged from their spoonfed idea of the straight, their media-approved mental-picture (a snapshot of sorrow) of the narrow.
"He's standing outside, Harry."
"It's not really him, anymore, Sheila. We talked about this."
"But...it's so very dark. And it's started to rain. It's raining."
"Close the curtains and come back to bed."
"Give me just one more minute. One more sad minute."
"OK, but, hey, hey! Stop pressing yourself against the glass, and maybe wrap a towel around yourself?"
"..."
"Fine. Fine. I'll join you. Gosh your right. It is sad. But I think he's asleep now."
"Should we bring him in? Oh, he'll get soaked. He'll catch his death of cold."
"Hell no! It could be the ol' Trojan Horse ploy all over again. We step out of the room, he'll count to one hundred, click open an eye, smile to himself, tip-toe to the bookcase and walk out of the house with Chicken Inspector No. 23. Yes, it's all very clear to me, now, Sheila. He just wants to take his book back. And by God, the Petersons do not give back books! Never have and never will. Let him catch his death of cold, it'll serve the bastard right."
I mean, you were never going to be numbered among the masters of high finance, anyway. You were never going to be a champion middleweight world-beater, a secret keyholder to the doors that lead into inner circle. So, y'know, might as well -- if you can get somebody to lend it to you, find it for you, thieve it for you from the Marrakesh marketplace (overturning melon carts and angering turban merchants) -- read this book and escape the daily drear, the nightly fear.
March 26, 2020
In these times, chuckles obtained from 33 short Perelman pearls are gratefully received.
August 19, 2024
Although several of these feuilletons approach peak Perelman, the overall feeling is that Sid was coasting in the late 50s and early 60s. Several of these pieces seem like pale retreads of earlier glories. Nevertheless, even mediocre Perelman is worth reading.
June 28, 2020
Read in 1975. Perelman was a famous humorist so I was curious but I don't remember if I was amused.
February 15, 2023
Perelman is funny, but a lot of these stories blend together in a wash of antiquated vocabulary words nobody has ever widely used. The essays inspired by his own life were definitely the standouts.
Displaying 1 - 5 of 5 reviews