Just read it, hated it. I've known this gentile-man for a few odd years. He deemed himself a writer and acted accordingly. I think he enjoyed the idea of being a writer and the seclusion writing afforded him (I don't think he can afford to be a writer? Whatever that means!) And he brings this junk to the world after all that bellyaching. He told me he was cookin' up something good. Yuck! This is irrelevant tripe. I told him to write about his goddamn life. Why deal with the fictitious when the truth of your sad upbringing is more profound? He writes like this to escape the truth. Trying to manipulate us with this gross sentimentalism. With truth, he just needs to transfer and it is much easier. I am disappointed in you Tessie Boy! I know you don't like to be called Tessie, but I expected something else.
I don't want go on a rant! Ugh! He is a flawed man! Happyland that is my momma's bossom! About the story, it is rather basic and riddled with cheap word-play. I think the wordplay gives the reader a world of head-hurt. The illustrations are too steampunk for me. He is a punk full of steam. I throw wordplay back at you. See, I don't like the man and that sullies the reading experience. I loathe the person. Why? You don't need to know that. My hate knows no bounds; so, it cannot be out-of-bounds.
Happyland is made to seem profound, but it is basic, just like the person that wrote it. I just hate everything. I hate this story. I hate the person that wrote the story. I hate the computer he used to type up this story. I hate the mechanical pencil he used to write up his drafts. I hate the name of the characters. I hate the cup of coffee he drank from because it kept him up to write this story. I hate it wholly. I hate everything—except hating.