Although featuring a bottle of peanuts prominantly on the cover, there is no tophat-sporting bemonacled mascot to be seen within May Contain Nuts. This is not so much an affront to Mr. Peanut as it is to that Guy On The New Yorker Covers. For May Contain Nuts is certainly not The New Yorker, and would be chagrined to be mistaken for such.
First of all, there are no cartoons about cats lording their superiority over dogs. Nor are there any cartoons about dogs saucily rebuffing the demands of their masters. In fact, there is but one section dealing with cartoon humor, which was clipped from Poor Richard's Almanac.
Secondly, the most pretentious word to be found in the text is "requisition," used by that fancy-pants NPR-regular P.J. O'Rourke. No restauraunt reviews describing mediocre over-priced murky-black coffee as being "crepuscular." No Broadway send-offs featuring the term "antideluvian former-entity" in place of Carol Burnett's proper name. And no cartoons with cats expostulating vociferously (both words used to bring derision on Elmore Leonard in May Contain Nuts, but not counted in aforementioned pretentious word count as they are used ironically) on the nature of their lives.
Thirdly, no Garrison Keillor. Not even a joke about the number of bodies fished out of Lake Wobegon in recent weeks.
So, how much Mirth is there within this "Mirth of a Nation" publication? it depends. If you consider, for a moment, that the affiliation with "Mirth of a Nation" brings to mind the 1915 silent film "Birth of a Nation" (depicting the origins of the Ku Klux Klan), the impact is given an altogether different focus. Is racism funny? Is a pun based on a movie title depicting racism appropriate for a funnybook? Racism has lost its humorous bite. AT least, ever since the collapse of National Lampoon.
And frankly, it is hard to take a book of humor seriously without at least one semi-competant pencil rendering of a dog displaying distinctively human qualities, say, sitting in an easy chair with his back legs resting on an ottoman, smoking a pipe, making some dry reference about the price of bones on Wall Street. Of which, it should be mentioned, this book has none.
May Contain Nuts reads rather like this: Smile-inducing, stoic-faced reading, slight bemusement, skip-a-few-pages, smirk-inducing, laugh, laugh, smile, weird grin, what-the-hell...-Oh-okay-now-I-get-it, oh-that's-just-stupid-but-I-laughed-anyway, silent laugh, invisible smile, I-should-remember-that-one-line-in-case-I-need-to-be-witty-at-a-party, transcribe-this-part-and-email-it-to-grandma-only-first-edit-the-bad-words-out, another wry grin, a disappointed sign, skip-a-few-more-pages, go back to that first section you skipped, smile, flush the toilet and wash the hands, read, read, read, smile, read, laugh, smile, sigh stupidly.
All-in-all, this book has, like, 440 pages or something, most of which are sort of funny and some of which are pretty good, considering your foreknowledge of Joyce Carol Oates' bibliography or of Beckett's Waiting For Godot. Or of having perused People Magazine a time or two in the doctor's office, when available, instead of eight-year-old issues of ESPN Magazine.
Finally, the copy I read did have two instances where the dessicated skins of salted peanuts fell out from the pages, presumably left in there by some anonymous wag who thought the incongruity funny: May Contain Nuts actually containing trace amounts of peanut. Hope this revelation has not ruined the reading experience for you.