The following writings are excerpts from "the yet-to-be-published book" I started writing about four years ago:
I am not aging gracefully. One morning recently after breakfast, I reach into my shaving kit without putting on my bifocals. I choose what I think is the travel size tooth paste but the brand name is facing down. What difference would it make? I can't read the print facing up!
I lay a dollop of paste on the tooth brush but something doesn't look right and my nose tells me something doesn't smell right either. I luck out. I get my "specs" and look closely at the fine print, then turn the tube over. It reads: Preparation H. Oops! Holy buckets! That was a close call!
After thoroughly washing the brush, I find the tooth paste. I am brushing my teeth when I write the joke: "I know I am getting older. My eyesight is so poor that last week I brushed my teeth with Preparation H. The good news is my gums have stopped bleeding."
A new joke! Unless you do stand up comedy, you can't know how precious that moment was. Golden!
I get my chance to try my new joke out shortly after at a Bauerbuilt Banquet. I deliver it. It gets a laugh. It is proven. The laughter swells and just before the concentric rings of laughter reach shore, "Heckler Man" fires one up:
"Yeh, but you still LOOK like an asshole!" He gets an even bigger laugh. I hate that when it happens. Now I need to shoot back.
"Obviously, sir, you have not looked in the mirror lately. What's the old expression? It takes one to know one?"
For the first time in my years of writing comedy, I understand that many, if not all jokes are composed of the duality of negative and positive, yin/yang, bitter/sweet.
An agent books me into a show at The Fox Lake Federal Penitentary. I am to do two shows, one for the "white collar" criminals and one for the "blue collar criminals", the hard core.
While in the recreation room of the "country club" in the white collar building, a resident recognizes me. He is from Eau Claire. After he answers the what are you in for question (too creative with the books), he begins to tell me that being in prison is the best thing that has ever happened to him. He is delighted with the basketball, soccer, a full compliment of Nautilaus equipment and great food.
He is happily incarcerated. I never thought I would see those two words cozy up to one another.
After my first performance, the prison guide takes me to the hard-timers building. I am searched, my guitar case and guitar are searched, we pass through ultra-violet light and I am finger printed. I begin to wonder whether I will be released.
I am led to the auditorium, we do the sound check. I am ready. Inmates file in accompanied by armed guards. As a big one sits down in the front row he growls: "Where's the women?"
I wish women were performing for them as well.
Somewhere early on in the show, out of habit, still waiting for them to laugh at anything I have given them so far, I blurt: "and ladies and gentlemen --" I catch myself and I say: "Oh, that's right, there are no girls here."
With a lascivious laugh, a huge tatoo laden lifer in the front row flashes a toothless grin and gives the punch line for his mates:
"YES THERE ARE!"
He's killed again.
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