Stories with mad scientists are just inherently rad. Stories with mad scientists AND the end of the world are also rad.

And then there’s Cat’s Cradle by Kurt Vonnegut. Mad scientist, end of the world and absurd science fiction that manages to take the piss out of everything it goes near: religion, island nation politics and the deadly capabilities of “ice-nine”, a weapon of apocalyptic capabilities. It features a now deceased mad scientist (co-creator of the atomic bomb to be precise), whose latest invention of this deadly chemical is now in the hands of his three children.

The narrator is Jonah: A writer whose project was initially to write a book about the day the atom bomb was dropped on Hiroshima, and the people involved. His research into the atom bomb “father”, legendary Dr Felix Hoenikker, leads Jonah to the three Hoenikker successors: clarinet-playing Angela, former drug addict/dealer/something dodgy Frank and “little” Newt, a  midget and proud of it. Alarmingly, they each have a share of ice-nine, and as you get to know the characters, you come to realise how disastrous this is.

Jonah is already a convert to the new-age mystical religion of  Bokonism, originated by the holy man Bokonon on the Caribbean island San Lorenzo (fictional island, that is). So, right from the beginning, he tells us his tale with a truly Bokononist slant. From the initial investigation into the Hoenikkers to suddenly being thrown into the position of president of San Lorenzo, Vonnegut, through Jonah, gives a very tongue-in-cheek interpretation of the ridiculousness of humanity.

Cat’s Cradle is funny as hell. Jonah is a warm and endearing narrator, who is cynical when he needs to be, but ultimately, ust as ridiculous as his fellow Bokononists.

But the cake for most idiotic and therefore most entertaining character goes to Franklin Hoenikker. Not dead, as his family was led to believe, but in fact the Minister of Science and Progress in the Republic of San Lorenzo. He puts Jonah on an impossibly high pedestal and blatantly butters him up in the process. Described as the “pinch-faced child [who] spoke with the timbre and conviction of a kazoo”, Frank tells Jonah “‘I like the cut of your jib!’ and ‘I want to talk cold turkey to you, man to man!’” in order to persuade him into presidency.

I don’t know about you, but anyone who says things like “I like the cut of your jib” is an instant favourite.

The book may fall into the science-fiction genre, technically, but probably reads more like a twisted philosophy that is meant to be prodded at, pulled apart and scrutinised from every possible angle. So it leaves you wanting more ice-nine sooner, and less Bokononist dribble. And it is dribble, in case you were wondering.

A fantasimically entertaining read, Cat’s Cradle is black humour at its prime. BUT. If you find yourself wanting to convert to Bokononist, I suggest a visit to a psychologist.