Nonsense by Nick Angelis
Copyright 2011 GG Press
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My friends and family all politely refused to have this book dedicated to them. That leaves you, the hapless reader; unless you are friends and family, in which case I must confess that your refusal is probably still a wise decision.
Essays on the Evils of Ice Cream Truck Drivers
Introductory Ramblings
Frederick had a dream. The sort of dream all children have when they want to be astronauts but years later settle for being bitter bag handlers at their local airport instead. Frederick's dream was a strange dream, and wholly unrelated to his desire to be trim and agile as a young gazelle traipsing about the golden fields of the African savanna. Don't giggle children, and stop poking your chubby friends. You should admire their fortitude in turning down milk fortified with steroids and calcium in favor of Twinkies and similar treats.
Every day after school, Frederick would sneak into his dad's closet and try on his brown suit. You see, his dream was to be the postmaster general of Ontario, but he was greatly misinformed. Through a horrible turn of events, a soap opera aired instead of the postmaster's speech on TV last week, so Frederick thought he had to wear a suit and his underwear if he was to be postmaster. The suit had quite a plunging neckline but almost covered his kneecaps. It was a small price to pay for the power. Why, letters from all over the territory had to have his seal to reach their destination! As his mind churned with the possibilities and his toes wiggled with the thrill that comes from daydreaming about absolute power, he felt something soft and squishy and heard a mournful gasp. There on the floor dodging Frederick's plush pink toes was a rare talking raisin, this one obviously French and from Quebec!
The raisin, which went by the inexplicable name of Jimbo the Clown (he wore mascara but I wouldn't really call that clown makeup), doffed his beret in respect and bent on one wrinkled knee. Put your hand down child, I know what you're going to ask and I don't want to answer it. Jimbo the Clown explained that there was only one way to become Postmaster General of Ontario--you must eat a blue pumpkin, and those only grow along old landing strips hidden in Manitoban cornfields.
Well, that's enough of that story. Maybe I'll finish it in a companion book entitled Nonsense 2: Daydreams of Dried Fruits and Canadians. Similar themes emerge in the upcoming tales of this book, but you know what's really nonsense? The money you just parted with in order to enjoy this collection. I assure my gentle (as well as my chafingly rough) readers that all royalty income will be spent foolishly, perhaps on the down payment for a BB gun to properly admonish the birds that perch on my mailbox. I am not a bird hater, but they perpetually let loose a torrent of chirps, songs, and ballast at most inconvenient times. I realize that you are already struggling to put down this book, but let me reassure you that it is no worse than The Last Man by Mary Shelley is. No one else I know has ever read The Last Man cover to cover. Don't try it—it's a terrible book, and I only read it because I was on jury duty and had nothing else to do.
Although jury duty was a whimsical activity, this book is not. In fact, when a friend of mine told me to write all the things I never had the chance to say to the people in my life, I wrote this list of lies instead. I suggest you do the same. It's a very healing process.
1. I really only think of you when I'm marinating butterflies in decadent layers of delectable spam, which isn't often.
2. I've never forgiven you. Never forgiven you for selling my family to the eggplant merchant.
3. I just want to touch you, touch you over and over with an aluminum baseball bat.
4. You have such a cutesy name, just like a destructive hurricane,