Laugh Infection

 

When I meet people, or, to put it more precisely, when people meet me, they ask two questions: are your curls natural and how can I be funnier? Some will tell you on protracted podcasts that humor is innate, inborn, and inbred. Something you can’t teach because it’s a gift. And like a gift, the fruit in the basket rots if you don’t eat it. Comedy is not difficult. Here are some tips for the pre-funny. 

Meme It Up

Why write your own joke when a google image search will yield more laughs than you’ll ever need? For every situation, there’s a familiar picture that someone has already photoshopped for your convenience. 

 

Be Quotable

In our binge culture, very few people under thirty have seen the great comedy films of the past. That’s good for you, very good in fact. Why? Because you can continuously quote them without attribution. No one’s the wiser. But you are the funnier. 

 

Funny story

If you have a funny story, don’t simply regale your listeners with the specifics. Tell me right off the bat how they are supposed to perceive it. “Funny story…” Those two words set the tone for how the audience is supposed to receive the information. Without this preamble, they are liable to cry – and not in the good way. 

 

Spice Things Up

You know how pepper makes some people sneeze? Well, paprika does the same thing for laughter. 

 

It really is that easy. Funny how that worked that, huh?

Anchors Aweigh

Given the belt tightening happening at major networks, it’s worth asking: who can and should host a TV show? Layoffs, firings, cutting ties, it seems that executives are all starting to get the picture. Because it no longer makes sense to pay someone an eight-figure salary to read off a teleprompter or sip a glass of Sauvignon Blanc for five hours. We were able to snag the hottest talent in broadcast after accepting the role of lead anchor on a highly-respected cable news channel. This is his first interview anywhere. Enjoy. 

MTP: How are you?

 

Anchor:  Dry.

 

MTP: Could you elaborate? 

 

Anchor: I’m an anchor, so I’m still getting used to the new surroundings.

 

MTP: Meaning…

 

Anchor: I’m spent the last two hundred years at the bottom of the Boston harbor collecting mollusks, seaweed, and other seafloor accessories. Practically overnight, here I am, basking in the glow of a well-lit television studio, flanked by segment producers and fellow on-air talent. It’s a new world.

 

MTP: What do you bring to the gig that past broadcasters may have lacked? 

 

Anchor: Stability, conscientiousness, and inner strength. 

 

MTP: Now it’s true you haven’t held down a steady job in a while, why is that?

 

Anchor: I got tired of pulling all the weight. Most ship captains have very little time in their day to give me a courtesy scrubbing. I was on whaling ships where I got along better with the whales than the crew. They seemed to understand where I was coming from, and where I was going. 

 

MTP: And you think you’ll bring the same mentality to cable news? 

 

Anchor: An anchor isn’t supposed to do much. By the time someone turns on the TV, they’ve already made up their mind on the issues of the day. I want them to stare at me, read the ticker, and buy one of the many products advertised during the show. 

 

MTP: That’s a good point. 

 

Anchor:  I’m not going to have a scandal like some of these idiots either. 

 

MTP: Critics have said that you’re made, at least in part, of lead. 

 

Anchor: That’s nonsense. But let’s say, for the sake of argument, I’m an incredibly toxic anchor. How about this: don’t like me. I’d be the one with the HR complaint not them. 

 

MTP: Interesting take. Don’t you think your presence could dumb down the newsroom?

 

Anchor: Not possible. Plus, I’m very comfortable at rock bottom. 

 

MTP: Good luck. 

 

Anchor: Do you have any baking soda? I don’t want to be rusty on my first day.

MTP: Not on me. 

Anchor: That's okay. I'll just have to get in the makeup chair a little early. 

Disneyfication

Savvy politicians shouldn’t meddle in issues of the day. They shouldn’t have a grasp of history or a wonky fetish for the tax code. They shouldn’t legislate, govern, or form coalitions. They should instead be focused on the little things. Namely, little rodents. Walking, talking, cartoon mice, to put a finer point on things.

I want my politicians at war with fantasy purveyors. 

The country can function without them reading every bill they sign, but it cannot survive a psychotic obsession for amusement parks. There’s nothing amusing about it. 

Take the Disney corporation, society’s preeminent fabulists.

Where is Walt Disney in this clash of will? Some say he’s in cold storage, frozen solid until climate change makes ice an inappropriate indulgence, an ostentatious display of wealth. But he’s the only hope the company has. Imagine the sight of Walt’s icy glow and frosty reserve, glistening off a gubernatorial podium for one last battle. 

How's that for a happy ending? 

If Life Gives You Lemon, Make Something Awful

 

When two deeply unlikable television personalities lose their jobs on the same day, not only does it reinforce the existence of a deeply mischievous and hilarious God, but also it provides the recently sacked a chance at reinvention. For these two idiots of the idiot box, the world is their oyster and food poisoning remains a relatively minor risk. So what’s in store for these two talking heads? 

 

Steely Dumb

The duo could tour in the vein of 70s jazz rock heroes. 

 

The Fraud Couple

Felix and Oscar have nothing on these two political pundits, especially when they move into a Brooklyn flophouse. Just think of the high jinks when these two rivals become bunk mates. Arguments over dishes, a night light’s luminosity,  and who takes out the trash. 

 

Buddy Cop Out

Who wouldn’t want to see these two dipping doughnuts in coffee on a late-night stakeout? 

 

Immoral and Hardy

I would pay good money (not mine, but through a series of shrewd tax write-offs) to see the two work the stage for an old timey comedy routine. 

 

Ring Dings

When debate ends, punching begins. Charter a dinghy into international waters for a bareknuckle boxing match between TV hosts. Think they have big heads now? Just take a look after the swelling. 

 

You’ll notice there’s one intentional omission from the above list. Podcast. I think we exceeded our quota long, long ago. 

The DIY Kitchen

At some restaurants, about midway through the meal, a waiter plops a small, table-top grill or a boiling pot of water for the diners to control. How things progress is now up to them. When the steak is rubbery, they have no one to blame but themselves. While many believe this goes against the principle of eating out, given the nature of cooking your food and then being asked to pay others for the privilege of eating it. That's one way of looking at things. Here's another. At DIY Kitchen, we believe these establishments don’t go far enough.  

That’s why instead of seating you immediately, we keep you on your feet for a good forty-five minutes to an hour. Your reservation time is not the time you start eating, it’s the time to get to work. Some of our frequent customers know to bring a change of clothes after ruining several pieces with unexpected splatter. Because splatter here is always expected.    

After slaving over a hot stove for just under an hour, you may wonder: what’s on the menu? Good question. That’s something you should have been thinking about earlier, much earlier. We’re talking dawn, when most chefs visit markets for inspiration and some old-fashioned haggling with sleep-deprived, fish-guts smelling, quasi-mobsters. 

Eating is a small part of the DIY experience. Yes, you will eat. However, that’s only after putting in a solid shift. You must withstand the barbs and bullying from our full-time staff. 

At the end of the meal, one you will inhale and promptly pass out after, your job isn’t done. Those dishes aren’t going to clean themselves, nor is the table you occupied for approximately 15 minutes of ravenous consumption. So when you’re all done and the valet is getting your car, feel free to pocket a few dollar bills. By now, you’ve earned a nice tip. 

And unlike other restaurants, it’s up to us whether we have you back without any reservations.

72 Perfectly Good Reasons Not to Drink Bud Light

 

 

1.     It has a bad aftertaste.

2.     It has a bad beforetaste.

3.     It has a bad duringtaste.

4.     It has a bad the nextdaytaste.

5.     It has a bad smell.

6.     It has a bad look.

7.     It has a bad feel.

8.     It has a bad sixth sense. 

9.     It’s a waste of water. 

10.  It’s a waste of aluminum.

11.  It’s a waste of cardboard.

12.  It’s a waste of pasteurization. 

13.  It’s a waste of Anheuser-Busch.

14.  It’s a waste of advertising.

15.  It’s a waste of time.

16.  It’s a waste of money.

17.  It’s no Acqua Panna. 

18.  It’s no Evian.

19.  It’s no Poland Spring.

20.  It’s no Fiji.

21.  It’s no Kirkland Signature Purified Drinking Water.

22.  It’s not even Dasani.

23.  You’re not a fan of German “technology.”

24.  You’re not a fan of the color blue.

25.  You’re not a fan of referring to alcoholic beverages as your friend, pal, or bud. 

26.  You believe things you can crush belong in trash compactors.

27.  You believe funnels should only be used in baking.

28.  You believe shotgunning involves sitting in the front seat and nothing else.

29.  You believe in savoring things.

30.  You believe in relishing things.

31.  You believe in enjoying things.

32.  You’re not a sadist.

33.  You’re not a masochist.

34.  You’re not a moron.

35.  You’re not an imbecile.

36.  You’re not an idiot.

37.  You’re not a dope.

38.  You’re not a fool.

39.  You’re not a troglodyte.

40.  You’re not a spring breaker.

41.  You’re not in college.

42.  You’re not in high school.

43.  You’re not on probation.

44.  You’re not on parole.

45.  You’re not on the run.

46.  You’re not on the lam.

47.  You’re not under indictment.

48.  You’re not doing time.

49.  You’re not out of control.

50.  You’re not hungover. 

51.  It won’t age well.

52.  Your friends won’t age well.

53.  Your decisions won’t age well.

54.  You won’t age well.

55.  You like yourself.

56.  You like the finer things in life.

57.  You like Coors.

58.  You like Miller.

59.  You like Budweiser. 

60.  You like drinking out of the toilet.

61.  You like drinking out of the garbage can to rescue the remaining liquid present upon emptying each bin.

62.  You like drinking raw sewage.

63.  You like drinking from squalid amoeba-laden lakes.

64.  You like drinking from a melting down nuclear reactor.

65.  You like drinking from an active volcano.

66.  You like drinking straight from the ocean.

67.  You like drinking acid rain.

68.  You like drinking from a hummingbird’s nectar straw. 

69.  You like drinking out of lead-covered bathtubs. 

70.  You like drinking out of a barnyard trough.

71.  You don’t like beer.

72. You like beer.

Punching Up

There are those who understandably believe that “punching up” refers to how one ought to go through a life teasing others. Well, it’s not only that. Punching up is a term used to denote how one physically collides with the world through mockery, derision, and condescension. 

Put it this way, there’s nothing wrong with making fun of the Empire State Building and its domineering spire, casting a shadow over midtown Manhattan. This is why you can’t make fun of the subway, despite its many foibles. Because it is literally beneath you to do so. You should approach the world from sea level and not the rare subterranean sojourn. That said, the few elevated trains left are fair game for jokes, which makes Chicago's transit system ripe for ridicule. 

However, sneering at the curb or the sewers is a no go. It’s why the only place appropriate for making fun of the ocean is underwater. Mountains, skyscrapers and trees are obnoxious outgrowths of an overgrown society. But jellyfish, coral reefs, and seaweed? I don’t think so. They deserve our respect, not our barbs. 

Some think “punching up” is purely a figure of speech. Not in this case. What’s wrong with burying your fist into the terra cotta of a gaudy pre-war structure? Nothing. How hauling off and jabbing a notorious redwood? Remember: Belittling others is fine as thing as you’re being little.  

Printing Press Pause

 

Dear Johannes,

It seems like only yesterday that type wasn’t moveable. But now it is, thanks to your terrifying machine. You know what’s going to happen now don’t you? We’re going to be flooded with propaganda and untruth, not to mention “misinformation,” “disinformation,” and information we can’t yet verify. Plus, old fashioned information isn't meant for everyone either. 

Remember when folks in the village trusted their priests to know Latin? I didn’t bother reading the Bible back then, that was their job. I had better things to do, like avoiding the plague, checking on my crops, and cleaning my privy. Our religious leaders told us what to think, what to say, and how much to put in the collection plate. I'm not a math guy. You’ve made it easier for everyone to get access to God’s word. Shouldn’t there be some middleman involved? God doesn’t have time to speak directly to his flock. Otherwise, what’s the point of having priests? They need to work, too. 

I long for the days of hand copying over mead and mutton. Would my wrist ache? Would my fingers swell? Would my eyes begin to bulge? Of course, but I was learning essential components of ascetic discipline. You think a machine doing in a single day what would take months for a team of men is fair? These hand copiers have mouths to feed – and that’s not including their own. That’s to say nothing of geese and swans who willingly provide their feathers for the greater good of penmanship. Imagine not needing a quill to write? I might actually cry over spilled ink.  

It’s 1440, Johannes, we need to take a breath. This letter was poorly written by hand two months ago, but we couldn’t get it under your doorstep until today. We had to find everyone and get them to sign in person. Not so easy. Imagine if the mail was altered in the same way you changed printing? Scary, huh? That’s why the signatories of this letter are calling on a 6 year pause on all “printing press” ventures. If not, we’re prepared to ask the King to put you in jail. Not just for your own good, but for the whole of humanity. This is serious stuff. 

I sometimes think that the burning of the library of Alexandria was a good thing, in that it made people take seriously what they put down on paper. And, as you know, paper is quite flammable. This invention of yours is a powerful tool. But think of the harm it may cause. Can good come of it? Maybe, but we haven’t considered that possibility and won’t because negative things are much easier to visualize for panicked ignoramuses, especially under a raging mob’s burning torchlight. 

Be careful, Johannes. I don’t think you understand what you’ve done. We should take a step back. Frankly, The Dark Ages weren’t that long ago. That was a simpler time, dare I say, a better time. I hope you realize that you didn’t create a monster. You created an infinite number of monsters. 

Instead of the printing press, why couldn't you have put your obvious intelligence to good use and revolutionized the garlic press? Now that's something in desperate need of innovation. 

The Olo Gist

No one wants to be a bartender anymore or worse yet, a “barback.” The latter sounds like the ripe reward after years of painstaking mechanical bull riding. Why should they when being a mixologist allows you to wear suspenders, a puny jazz chapeau, and carry around tufts of fresh rosemary? During “March Madness,” when Gamblers Anonymous rooms swell with sudden acolytes of college basketball, there’s hardly any space for real fans. The honor should go to the diligent bracketologist, poring over his bracket, eyeing the many permutations as the whole project busts in real time.

It's why I’m officially retiring as a writer, effective immediately. From the ashes of looseleaf paper and half-chewed number 2 pencils, I will be reborn as a wordologist. I know there are plenty of writers who would say there are many writers, but that’s what makes me different. I see a sentence and rush to the thesaurus seeking unnecessary complications. Communication is not my goal, confusion is. I want brows furrowed, audible sighs, and involuntary convulsions.  

I casually examined LinkedIn for similarly worthy titles. But after seeing rock stars, creative ninjas, chief storytellers, wordmongers, wordsmiths, wordbrewers, word distilleries, word cookers, bard boys, scribbling scriveners, statement savers, phrase placers, style spacers, useless utterers, and “poets,” I knew I chose the right moniker. Wordologist just felt more scientific, and thus, legitimate.

Agricultural appropriation

 

They’re everywhere. I could be in a bodega in search of a beverage far enough from its eventual expiration date. I could be on the train platform during my routine morning commute. I could be walking on the sidewalk counting pieces of garbage for a graduate dissertation. I could be tagging pigeons, not for science, but for a friendly game of interspecies tag. None of it matters, because around me are people who look like farmers. 

But they aren’t farmers. They aren’t ploughing verdant dreamscapes at the crack of dawn. They wake up to the dissonant sound of email pings, not the cacophonous caw of a roof residing rooster. They drink oat milk, instead of the good stuff taken straight from the tap. They wear overalls to nightclubs despite the bathroom dilemma created every fourth drink. They spell John Deere with two vowels. To them, separating the wheat from the chaff, is a metaphor, not a hard fact of daily life. Use a scythe? They can’t even spell it. They wouldn’t know manure if they leapt headfirst into a pile of the stuff. 

Although, they do farm out much of their day jobs to temp workers in another hemisphere and complain incessantly about daylight savings time. 

Leave the farming to the farmers. 

Litter Allies

 

Advertising is at its best when we take ourselves too seriously and our language too literally. Did you know the greatest Volkswagen ad of all time wasn’t about a car, but a piece of citrus? The man in the Hathaway shirt was a rehabilitated pirate sans peg leg and parrot, and Apple’s most famous commercial wasn’t an ode to creative genius, but to the mentally ill. 

Instead of saying “meet me in the war room to kill some ideas,” if you say, “meet me the idea place to discuss creativity without judgment” you are helping people living in warzones. They may not know it, but by reducing the intensity in your workplace, you’re taking down the global temperature a significant degree. Comedians shouldn’t bomb unless they happen to be flying in the Enola Gay.  

The phrase “divide and conquer,” isn’t something you say when sorting leftovers with a range of Tupperware containers, but rather, a phrase clearly redolent of Genghis Khan’s imperial aspirations. The last thing you want amongst colleagues is to conjure up images of rampaging Mongols making their way across Eurasia. 

Don’t kill bad ideas. Feed them, clothe them, and send them to expensive boarding schools in rural New England. 

The enemy of advertising isn’t unoriginality, it’s metaphor. I always knew there was a good reason saying “like” too much was a problem.  

Those Who Can't Create, Curate

 

Over the weekend, I discovered fifty years after Picasso’s death, The Brooklyn Museum is having well-known comedian and Picasso loather, Hannah Gadsby curate a show on the artist. “Pablo-matic” is the kind of thing you say in a darkened tavern to a well-meaning friend sitting across the table when the music is too loud and they can hear you. Also, it’s the name of this exhibition, a clever departure from genuine cleverness. 

But this isn’t about Picasso. It’s about thinking more broadly and ecumenically about how we navigate the world. I’d like to see Franklin BBQ in Austin hand over the month of May to a fictional vegan chef by the curious name of Johannes Grassman. Buses should be driven by children who can barely see over the steering column. I haven’t even mentioned the blind yet, but they deserve their shot in the driver’s seat. The New York Philharmonic ought to be conducted by a local mafia don, not some Julliard-educated prodigy. In other words, anyone who talks with their hands can conduct with them, too. 

The New York Times editorial page should be written by people who can’t write for people who can’t read. We need professors of history who have amnesia. Those who can’t remember the past, don’t have to teach it. I want cricketeers on the roster of the New York Yankees. I want Martin Scorsese’s next film to be directed by a random teen influencer. Bed should be designed by authenticated vampires because only those who sleep hanging like bats can be objective.    

Fair is fair. Sometimes though, fair is also stupid. 

Testing, testing

 

There are people who think that everything is a test. Even those who don’t totally agree, would admit that many things at least rise to the level of a quiz. I fall in between these people, the testers and the quizzers. In life, you rarely have to show your work, except maybe during an audit. And I've never seen anyone succeed through strict devotion to multiple choice answers. The other day I had to interview someone for a new position. They were to be my protégé. I have mentored many things, but never any people. The higher-ups believed I was up to the task.

The candidate started by showing me some of their writing, a little of their art, and a poem written in elementary school. I told them to “hang on a second,” and left the room for a couple hours. I was really just around the corner, listening to them scrolling through Instagram, biding my time for an appropriately dramatic reentrance. When I came back, wobbly and well-fed, I said, while the agency hadn’t made a decision, there were a few tasks they could do to rise above the competition.

That’s what I handed them what at first glance, appeared to be my grocery list. I said, I know what it looks like, but this isn’t just a grocery list. You are seeing a window into an employer rarely revealed. You now know what juice I like – and how much pulp – my almond intake, and whether or not I prefer drinking straight from the tap (rain imbibing) versus bottle or can. This is highly coveted information. Something many of my fiercest rivals would give an arm and a leg (both chicken) to come into possession of.

I didn’t tell them what to do. I left the room and left the “list” on the table. Fresh fruit isn’t so easy this time of year, especially when I underlined the words “local within 90 miles” several times in thick ink. 

Was this a creative position? Naturally. Could they have robbed a bodega for the items? I suppose. But would that have been creative? Not in this surveillance state. Start a farm co-op would be more palatable to my artistic tastebuds. What I didn’t do was give them my address. They found it anyway, enterprising young person that they are. Public records are a helluva thing. At 7 pm that night I was listening to the ballgame when a knock came. It was the candidate with several bags of groceries; just in time for dinner. I thanked them and gave them a cash tip, never inviting them into my urban palace. 

 

They didn’t get the job. But on the bright side, my shopping was done for the week. 

Allegory of the Knave

 

Since I’m a student of history and, mirroring our education system, causes me a great deal of frustration and debt, I have taken to examining art. Arthur Miller wrote this play called The Crucible. Heard of it? I hadn’t. And I think I know why. Too vague. Too weird. Too complicated.

If I were to give some advice to Artie, it would be this. Write what you mean. Don’t obscure the point. You want to write about witches? Write about witches. You want to write about commies? Write about commies. Attempting to do both or, God forbid, drawing oblique parallels between both situations, is a recipe for failure.

Since Artie isn’t around anymore, I’m working on a modern update of The Crucible, more succinctly entitled, Senator Joe McCarthy and the Bad Things He Did. There’s no John Proctor, no Salem accents, no use of words like “thy” or “thine.” It’s Paul Giamatti in a tour-de-force performance as Tail gunner Joe, Roy Cohn, Ike, Bobby Kennedy, Alger Hiss, and Whittaker Chambers. George Clooney could even play himself if that’s what the studio heads demand. Everything is filmed in grainy black and white, copied shot-for-shot from the televised hearings. Consider this: the script is already written. There’s no subtlety, no nuance, just a big trailer for Mr. Giamatti’s massive wardrobe.

With this film, the audience will immediately understand what I’m after. That’s preferable to wondering what a “privy” is and why in a play about witches there’s no mention of broomsticks. When someone goes to a movie, they don't want to work hard. They want to fall asleep. Why else would theaters ply them with food, drink, and reclining seats?   

Forty Days

Easter is a time when the focus is either on bunnies and their reproductive cycles or the specifics of resurrection. What many people ignore is just how long Jesus spent milling around after his triumphant return. From what I can tell through quick google searches (versus a close reading of sacred texts) he was back for forty days. That’s long enough to develop new habits. But what did he do? What did he say? And where did he go? 

I think the answers to all these questions are quite obvious. He did all the things he couldn’t do in life. He went to fancy restaurants without reservations. He confronted people he never liked. He took long walks without giving sermons. He ate well, he drank well, and he laughed a lot. The thing about forty days is that it’s long enough to get comfortable, but just short enough to still feel relatively fresh. After say, eighty days, he might not have received the same sort of welcome. That’s when he would get side glances and subtle head shakes. The muttering of people wondering, “when is he ascending anyway?” Forty days is enough time for people to be happy to see him. 

What Jesus craved, besides fish, wine, was social acceptance. He wanted to walk into any establishment and have the whole place stop. “Look, it’s Jesus. Let’s go say hi.” The way a mafia don demands constant respect. By the end of the forty days, everyone who needed to see him, saw him, and even those who didn’t want to, had to begrudgingly relent. It’s not every day you see someone nailed to a cross and then ordering shots for the entire bar.  

The problem with the story is how boring it was. You have to remember what he didn’t have. Sure, Jesus could dance, but he couldn’t shoot a shaky video and post it on TikTok. Yes, he could “call on his disciples,” but he couldn’t text them cryptic messages. Jesus didn’t have an iPhone or a iPad. He never tweeted. He didn’t know what a QR code was or why all memes use a similar font. I’m not certain he ever ordered anything on the menu. He was strictly a servant of daily specials, trusting the expertise of a kitchen staff and enjoying the culinary surprises from a gifted chef. But after forty days, you start to see some repeats. 

The truth is, if you look at the forty days carefully, you see that Jesus did everything he wanted. He got his “money’s worth,” as it were. This is why he hasn’t come back. Not because he can’t, but because he’s not interested. He doesn’t want to wait in line at the Genius Bar or deal with traffic on the BQE. He got enough of the whole resurrection thing back then. Despite Marvel’s insistence, most people abhor sequels.