If there’s one thing I’ve come to expect from George Saunders, after enjoying his stories for years in the New Yorker, is that he’s consistently funny. It was in hopes of getting a concentrated dose of that consistent funniness that I picked this up from my favorite used book shop: BLMF Books & Salon in Seattle’s Pike Market.
Add to that my experience reading a broad range of fiction. I’m seldom disappointed. This was one of those times. My only notes, written on the digittante postcard I used as it’s bookmark, was thus:
“Biting satire of service economy America and dumb fuck-tards employed there. But the stories rarely evolved beyond the incredible invention Saunders put into their premise. I’m frankly amazed he could imagine so many joyless scenarios with so few punch-lines.”
If Saunders aim was to simply catalog miserable ideas of how working and living in America might be right now, mission accomplished.
But don’t expect to find this Saunders too much like the version the editors at the New Yorker publish.