MISTER O

Lewis Trondheim
NBM ($13.95)

by Karen Donovan

Joy.
Dismay.
Pique.
Quotidian aimlessness.
Sociopathic resolve.

Albert Camus meets Wile E. Coyote.
Paul Tillich inhales a little helium.
Job wakes up in the movie Groundhog Day.

Mister O takes it on the chin and keeps coming back.
Ludicrous escapes.
Karmic ruins.
Multiple orgasmic eurekas.
Resourceful but ultimately doomed use of sticks.
Vanitas.
Exasperation.
Revenge.

He doesn't want much, but what he wants, he wants endocrinologically.
He doesn't read much allegory.

He's into skeptical noodling.
Transcendent whoopsies.
Learning from his mistakes.
He's got hope.
You've got to give him that.

Not that there's any reason for hope.
There is Beckettian slapstick, abominable cruelty, and just deserts.
Here comes the sockdolager and—look out!
It's your doppelganger with a big red, boxing glove.

Tragic? Comic? Tragicomic?
You feel for him, Mister O, even though he's a psycho.
You can identify.
Because you're not asking for all that much either.
When your day feels like a seed heat at the Xtreme Games,
and you wish you could get across the street without being creamed.

The promised land.
It's such a small leap.
But he's never going to make it.
Despite his desire.
Mayhem blooms from his desire.
Bloody splats.
And impossible physics.
Flatulence-propelled flight.
Bullshit-greased launch pads.
Birdcopters.
Shoe spring-sprongs.
Teleportation.
Magic carpets.
Poorly timed rocks.

Man, is he sore.
He's got issues with the cosmic oyster.
Injudicious enthusiasm.
An everlasting reason for singing the blues.

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