The Comedian

Stan wasn’t funny. Fifteen years of doing stand-up, he hadn’t learned one thing about delivering a joke. And improv didn’t work for him either.

He’d tell stories and the audience ended up crying. He tried ventriloquism and the dummy didn’t talk. Somebody suggested puns. For the life of him, he couldn’t figure out what a pun was. Limericks? He couldn’t rhyme. Funny songs? He was off key and his timing was unbelievably bad.

He was so bad the other comedians felt sorry for him. So they suggested he get a partner. Stan kept talking over Ralph Horowitz’s delivery. And when Ralph tried a Tommy Smother’s bit of “Mama liked you best,” Stan agreed.

It wasn’t that Stan didn’t have a sense of humor. He did. That was the tragedy of it all. A fellow comic would tell a joke, any joke, and Stan was guffawing all over the place.

Knock knock jokes? Stan was on the floor.

Impressions? Stan was on the floor.

Light bulb jokes? Stan was on the floor.

Poor Stan. He was desperate to be funny. It was his mission in life. To make people laugh. It all started with George Carlin. Carlin has set so many comedians on their road in life that they’ve given up counting. Stan was just one in a crowd of many to catch Carlin-itis.

Since Carlin had his “seven words you can’t say on tv,” Stan tried “seven words you can say on tv.” Not funny.

Bill Cosby did Fat Albert; Stan tried Skinny Phil. Fat is funny; skinny is not. He tried out tennis jokes. Little did he realize that golf was funny; tennis was not.

Bob Newhart used a phone as a prop. Stan tried that. The thing Stan didn’t get was that Bob was talking to an imaginary person on the other end. All Stan got was dead-phon-itis. The bit went over like a fart in church.

And speaking of church. Stan tried the Stan Kinnison route. Just so you know Sam was a Pentecostal preacher before he became a comedian but that’s not a stretch. Both are show business.

Anyway Stan was impressed with Sam’s take on religion, so he went and got himself baptized. And he almost drowned. Glug-glug jokes didn’t work for Stan either.

One sad day, a Tuesday morning, after a Monday night of really, extra special, bad performing, Stan looked in the mirror. Tears streamed down his face. “When am I going to ever learn?”

Stan could have prayed but he had tried that. After 1,917 prayers, he knew that was not going to work. God wasn’t listening. He wasn’t even sure there was a God. If there was a God, maybe he was having a laugh at Stan’s expense.

There was only one thing left to do. He left the dump of a hotel he’d been staying at. He walked several streets over and came to a hardware store. He went down the aisle and found a coil of rope. Took it to the cashier.

“How long is this rope?” Stan asked.

“Long enough to hang yourself,” the clerk answered.

“What?

“Yeah, it’s right there on the label.”

He went back to his apartment and threw the rope onto the bed. He opened the closet door and pulled out his dummy.

“What are you doing?” the dummy said, then saw the rope. “Not that. Please not that.”

Stan sat the dummy down in a chair, then grabbed the rope and made a noose.

“Please, no,” the dummy cried.

“Whether you like it or not,” Stan said, holding the rope tightly, staring into the dummy’s glass eyes, “you’re going to teach me how to be funny.” He shook the noose at the dummy. “Or else.”

The dummy let out a sigh of relief. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Something to think about. I know I do.

Often I let my inner groucho come out for a little looksee. Mostly I do it with language. So here is some thoughts for your edification on Uncle Bardie here doing his Uncle Bardie thing.

Language is a wonderful thing I love to play around with. Give me a word like garbage and I am going to be doing a Norm Crosby and say garabage. It’s something I can’t resist.

Did you know there’s supposed to be a funny font? Well, I am here to tell you I don’t think Comic Sans is up to the job. Squirrelly thang, isn’t it? One thing is for sure. It ain’t no Louis C. K.

Talk about songs. I like to take songs and throw them for a loop. Feliz navidad becomes Police-know-it-all. Don’t think so. Just try it.

You know Paul McCartney wrote a song about al Qaeda? It’s called Band on the Run.

I once wrote a story that used this playfulness with language. It was called “I tink I can, I tink I can”. The opening paragraph went like this:

Jan Horstafeller vas a mighty fine fellow. He ate his haggalogen on Vod’s Day, Tor’s Day und Freya’s Day. As he scarfened down his haggalogen, his cappagaggas growed to ten feet vide und twenty feet large und Jan Horstafeller vas only a vee bit of a Horstafeller. Haggalogen has tat effect on der person. It enlarges von’s capagaggas enourmously. Yah, tat it does.

There was more but that’s enough. I can hear all my fans out there, yelling, “Turn it off. Pleeze.”

What started this blog off was a question I keep asking about English. If more than one child is a children and more than one brother is a brethren, how come more than one sister isn’t a sistern?  If a female actor is called an actress, if a female waiter is a waitress, if a female priest is a priestess, if a female enchanter is an enchantress, if a female tempter is a temptress, how come a female adult isn’t an adultress? Think about it.

And if the humor ain’t flowing. If the laughter ain’t coming out of its hole, here’s some jokes for all you discriminating readers.

Nudist woman says to her friend, “I have a blind date tonight, and I don’t have a thing to wear.”

We all know that strippers are popular for bachelor and bachelorette parties these days. My question is what does a nudist have at their bachelor or bachelorette party? A clotheser.

Nudist mother takes a look at her new born baby and says to the nurse, “He looks just like his father.”

You know what you call a private investigator among nudists? I don’t know either, but it is not a private dick.

What do you call a dad’s bike? A popcycle.

Why is the largest party day of the year in the middle of Lent? I’m talking Saint Patrick’s Day here folks. Think about it.

How do they get those bunnies to lay those Easter eggs? Think about it.

Why is it we go to doctors and lawyers who are just practicing? If you had a plumber who was just practicing, wouldn’t you get rid of him. What happened to my kidney? you ask. Oh, the doctor removed it. Why? He was just practicing. Think about it.

Here’s something to think about. Don’t know if you remember the country comedian Minnie Pearl but here’s some mini pearls I have come up with. Did you know that Minnesota (mini soda) means little Coca Cola? Did you know that menopause  means little hands? It’s pronounced mini paws. Did you know that Minneapolis means little town?  Minnehaha is little laughter. Think about it.

And think about this. The Oxford English Dictionary people are thinking about adding Mx to their dictionary. It can be used as an alternative to Mr., Mrs., Ms. and Miss. So, when you get married, you will be pronounced Mx and Mx. Big question. Who will be the Mx and who will be the Mx? Puts a whole new spin on the term mxmarriage, doesn’t it?

Tae boo: to scare the pounds off of you.

Punctuation, punctuation, punctuation. What a pain. Guess that’s why it’s called punk-tuation, huh?

When I think semi-colon, I ask when is it going to grow up and become the colon it’s meant to be. I hardly ever use a colon. It calls me to think that my writing may just need a colonoscopy.

I do love to invent words like curioddities.

Add –licious (-icious) to a word and you have a new adjective. Adding –licious to a word intensifies the experience. Example: googlelicious.

incidii (pronounced en-sid-dee-eye): more than one incidious. As in: The incidii conspired to make me look like a fool. Examples of the incidii: People of Walmart website. Facebook, Youtube, Google+

Bet you think I am getting geniuser and geniuser. One of these days I too might be the geniusest.

Now admit it. You did chuckle a little along the way, didn’t you? C’mon, adimit it. No? Then why are you smiling?

Bon appetit.