I understand (I think) the beauty of Timmy Failure books. I have written before about the joy I find in reading the chapter titles, stunners like Unforgivable, That’s What You Are and Wasting Away Again in Marge and Rita-Ville.
And there is always Timmy, so fabulously clueless about absolutely everything that you begin to wonder if he is really an absurdist genius. Or maybe he’s an existentialist. (Merriam-Webster defines existentialism as “a chiefly 20th century philosophical movement embracing diverse doctrines but centering on analysis of individual existence in an unfathomable universe and the plight of the individual who must assume ultimate responsibility for acts of free will without any certain knowledge of what is right or wrong or good or bad.”) I looked it up, just to be sure. It’s been a while since I studied philosophy.
Yes, yes, I know. The author of Timmy Failure: The Cat Stole My Pants is not writing for middle-aged white women who go off on philosophical tangents. And yet. There’s a certain genius about a character and a series of books which both make you laugh out loud at the ridiculousness of it all – something most definitely NOT to be sneered at in this troubled world – and then very quickly bring you back to the reality of a character’s life. How does any kid deal with an absent father, an imaginary and difficult polar bear sidekick, AND a confusing world which demands both doing what everyone else does and being an individual?
And those frog underwear are to die for, too.
Timmy Failure: The Cat Stole My Pants by Stephan Pastis