Using fictionalized biography as his excuse, Robert Peck contributes another of the genre ""What Mad Magazine Hath Wrought"". This is, here we go again, zany, far out, sick(extremely), undisciplined(utterly), raving banter in the style of Jack Douglas- though not nearly so funny. Peck's technique eludes crystallization, though much of it can be termed a kind of ""catholic cognominalism"", name-dropping, the humor of allusion. The only thing really wrong with this way of evoking laughter is that the name suffices; nothing particularly pertinent, perspicacious, or clever need be said along with it. Say ""A. Mitchell Palmer"" to an audience of liberals and you'll kill 'em. To the conservative audience, any Roosevelt will do though Eleanor is preferable. Peck is hip to this. Scan the pages of his book and you'll come up with: Loretta Young (a riot, always), the Castro brothers, Adolf Hitler (a sure hit on campus), Jimmy Hoffa, George Washington, Mother Gabor, Sal Mineo, Charles Lindbergh, Westbrook Pegler (Ha!), Barbara Frietchie, Vic Tanny, Margaret Sanger, George Lincoln Rockwell, Sister Kenny, Helen Keller and sure-to-be-mentioned, guffaw-evoker, guaranteed-to-break-'em-up Albert Schweitzer. It all started with chicken fat.