From: /OU1=BRA0041_@mhs-merlin.attmail.com To: snowcat@total.net Date: Monday, December 01, 1997 4:31 PM Subject: Work related programming sh*t - really! (internet:snowcattotal.net)d Subject: Book Review Title: The Grand Pumbaa's Christmas Favourites (Hyperbole Press -- ISBN 0-7868-6028-6) Reviewer: David "Snowcat" Braun Although this book is entitled, "The Grand Pumbaa's Christmas Favourites" it could more accurately have been entitled, "The Grand Pumbaa Slogs His Way Through Long, Pointless Anecdotes". If there was any one thing that I could say was missing from this book (besides purpose or wit) it would be "Direction". Most of the stories in this 100-pages-too-long tome have as much bearing on Christmas as does the Easter Bunny. I wouldn't be doing my job if I didn't provide some specifics, would I? There is little point in painting a book with blanket condemnations without pausing to drive a salted letter opener into the wound! Take the first story, for example. In fact, take the whole book - I'm giving away my copy to the first taker. But back to my example, the first story of the five is entitled, "Keep The Yule Fire Burning". Now one would *think* that with a name like that, the story would have at least some passing tie-in with Christmas. One would think. I'll let the following excerpt speak for itself: "...It was mid-December, 1994. I stood there, shivering in the cold, with only the crackle and flicker of the wick on my Molotov Cocktail to keep me warm. The smell of kerosene was so think in the air you could cut it with a chainsaw. Soon I would be warm again. Soon. And all I could think of as I stood there, looking upon the future home of our First Church condominium project was, 'Thank the Kings Above for Lloyds of London!'..." Far from being an uplifting Christmas story, the narration is little more than a how-to manual for conducting an insurance scam. The only part of the story I found remotely heartwarming was His Pumbaaness's lament about how much his ensuing legal bills cost the church. The next chapter is slightly chilling. Under the innocuous title of, "Home For Christmas" it tells the story of how a batch of enthusiastic, fresh-faced First Church Cubsaders were sent into a nursing home to milk money out of the lonely residents for the FCOS Christmas party. The Grand Pumbaa is just vague enough in his narrative, however, to leave it ambiguous as to whether this was an historical accounting, or just a wishful fable. Given the family nature of this mailing list, I'm not even going to touch on the third story, "Die In The Name of Simba, Heathen Scum: A Christmas Massacre". All I will say is that I spoke with one of the First Church editors, and he confirmed that the story is merely an allegory. The fourth yarn is surprisingly heartwarming - at first. It starts off with The Grand Pumbaa recounting a childhood memory of sitting around the Christmas tree with his family, singing carols and exchanging gifts. The story quickly degrades, however, when he begins delving into the relative merits of each gift, as a function of its cost. The next five pages are crammed with graphs and charts to illustrate his points, and by the time he summarizes, he has constructed a fairly workable argument for why one's Christmas gift to a loved one should be in the form of a donation to the First Church. I find it mildly unsettling how he manages to morph an ostensibly good story into a plea for money. The last story in the book is merely depressing. Entitled, "I'll Be Stoned For Christmas", it's a pathetic tale about a nameless church leader who spends Christmas alone, with only a bottle of scotch to comfort him. All through the story I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, but the expected turn into a shameless plea for money, or veiled attack on the unsaved hordes never develops. Instead we're treated to a grueling recount of this lonely church leader as he sits in his cold living room, sipping scotch and waxing poetic over the single Christmas card he got that year. Mercifully he passes out in the story, awakening a day later face-down in a pool of his own vomit. On the flip side of the last page is the self-indulgently pathetic conclusion, "...and that's how I spent my loneliest Christmas ever. The End." What tripe! Where's the action? Where's the twist ending (like the transvestite proctologist in chapter 2)? Maybe that's how TGP claims he spent his Christmas, but I know how THIS critic won't be spending his money. Give this book a wide berth. Count yourself lucky if your local bookstore doesn't stock it. I give it two-and-a-half Sarabis on the open-ended scale.