That Old Gang o’ Mine: The Early and Essential S. J. Perelman, edited by Richard Marschall (Morrow, 160 pp., $12.95)
I was eating some skeet I’d shot (try to clean them, it’ll drive you crazy) along with several raw unfolded origami and a Baltimore chop, when this book came for review. How do they swallow those food stamps, anyhow? Tried calling Dial-a-Gesundheit all day, guess I’m allergic to Perelman. Ho, said my druggist, in his capsule commentary, take one before you corn-row your arm hair, maybe the thing’ll read itself. I’m not a hard critic, but I doubt if Mr. Zapruder’s latest film can match his .357 magnum opus. Brilliant . . . apocalyptic . . . well shot. I think this paragraph will play at select area barns in September along with some 12-tone gravestone rubbings I’ve just done. Listen, today exceptional children are retarded, so what d’you expect? In the Arctic it took time to be an overnight success— at least six months. Tell me, WFB. if you still read back here, why do I haveta send my column to Kemmerer, Wyoming, every issue, huh?
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