You ever have a neighbour whose behaviour is so mind-bogglingly inconsiderate and so suicide-inducingly annoying that you just want to ask him, in a polite Canadian way, to please stop?
TurboJetslams isn’t like that.
Jass Richards’ new novel, TurboJetslams: Proof #29 of the Non-Existence of God, tells the tale of one person’s pathetic and hilarious attempts to single-handedly stop the destruction of a little piece of beautiful Canadian wilderness by the increasing numbers of idiots who couldn’t care less.
A quick and entertaining summer read. and/or A perfect cottage-warming gift. and/or Boomer lit. and/or Sure to resonate with paddlers everywhere.
Extraordinarily well written with wit, wisdom, and laugh-out- loud ironic recognition, TurboJetslams: Proof #29 of the Non-Existence of God is a highly entertaining and a riveting read that will linger on in the mind and memory long after the little book itself has been finished and set back upon the shelf (or shoved into the hands of friends with an insistence that they drop everything else and read it!). Highly recommended for community library collections. ~Midwest Book Review
lane—Shiggles liked to say hi to Nutter, Caramel, and Beast, but
they didn’t go there on weekends when the Bullerts were up—they
saw a new dog at the edge of the road. Right across from Bullerts.
A big black one.
couple plastic bags of garbage into the bush, into the treed swath of
land between the lane and Campbell’s road. The swath was actually
Andy’s property, but she didn’t think Bullert realized that. It
wasn’t his property, that’s probably all that mattered.
Oh well, she thought, looking at the torn plastic bags, the scattered
tins, licked clean, the packaging of various materials, torn and
scattered, but also licked clean—let Andy deal with it. Problem
is, he probably wouldn’t notice it. Since Bullert had dumped it
across from his own driveway, not across from Andy’s driveway.
her arms just in case. Even you don’t like to shit in your own
yard if you can help it.
and fat. What self-respecting wolf within a hundred miles would
their leftover food: hamburger buns, pasta, rice, wieners, vegetable
soup— She’d seen it all.
was along the road, not beside someone’s cottage.
possibility that their actions might have consequences for others?
Who might not see Mama Bear, or raccoons, in time to grab their
brings out the primeval in people. They think they’re in the wild.
Where there are no dumps.
martens— Anyone in the wild with an ounce of grey matter, let
alone moral responsibility, buries their garbage. Or carries it out.
the leftover garbage back onto Bullert’s property. Maybe he’d
get the message.
she headed out for a walk in the forest, using the entrance, loosely
speaking, at the bottom of the hill because Frankie was at his cabin,
getting ready for deer season, or duck season, or mastodon season,
and although she had the legal right to use the road past his cabin,
she wasn’t in the mood for a confrontation. If he was preparing
for deer season, or duck season, or mastodon season, he’d be
cleaning his rifles.
to the left of the path, four bags of garbage. What the fuck.
Specifically, into Bullert’s screened porch.
a lovely mess to clean up when they arrived the following Friday.
Her worst-ever stand-up moment occurred in Atlanta (at a for-blacks- only club) (apparently). Her best-ever stand-up moment occurred in Toronto (when she made the black guy fall off his stool because he was laughing so hard at her Donovan Bailey joke).