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We're the Rodney Dangerfields of Comedy
Erik Deckers
Laughing Stalk Syndicate
Copyright 2004
People often ask me what it's like to be a humor writer. It's very simple. So simple, in fact, that. . . uhh, I mean no, it's extremely difficult. It's hard, hard work. So hard, in fact, that only extremely intelligent, highly-qualified people with special skills should attempt humor writing.
Humor writers should be placed on pedestals and revered by society. They should be honored with parades, awarded medals, and have deli sandwiches named after them. And I'm not just saying that because I'm a humor writer.
Okay, I AM saying that because I'm a humor writer.
Humor writing has a reputation of being a "lesser" art form. Since humor is supposed to be funny, it's not taken as seriously as other forms of writing or entertainment.
It's not as noble as novel writing, even though most novels have all the emotional depth of a high school prom. Newspaper editors rank us higher than the comics and lower than Dear Abby in terms of respectability.
Even celebrities who try their hand at children's writing look down on us. This is unfortunate, since the only reason they're writing children's books is because they can't read the big words in grown-up books.
We don't even get the same respect as clowns in a parade. Instead, we're held in the same regard as the guy who follows the horses with a shovel and wheelbarrow. Or, as one of my fellow humor writers once said, "we're the bastard children of opinion writers."
But what these so-called "real" journalists fail to understand is that no one talks about them. Or if they do, it's in derogatory terms.
When people complain about "the media" and all the negative or biased coverage that goes with it, they're not talking about us.
They're talking about those journalists wearing wrinkled clothes that are two years out of fashion, notebooks clutched in their sweaty hands, eagerly waiting for the next big scoop. They're talking about those people who said Al Gore won Florida before changing their minds and saying it was George Bush. They're talking about those reporters who make up entire stories and plagiarize from other writers.
People will stand around the water cooler and say, "Did you read today's Dave Barry? I laughed so hard I nearly wet myself."
They don't say, "Did you read today's David Broder column? I furrowed my brow so hard I nearly wet myself."
When someone says "David Broder," other people don't shout, "Ooooh, I love him! Hey, do you remember his column on Bill Clinton and Whitewater?!"
When someone says "Dave Barry," other people reminisce about their favorite Dave Barry columns, like the one about misunderstood song lyrics, making homebrewed beer, or taking his dog outside to pee.
If anything, humor writers have a harder job than other writers, because not only do we have to come up with 750 words on a certain subject, we also have to make our readers laugh. Newspaper writers are considered successful if their readers finish an entire article, while novelists just have to make everything seem depressing and interesting at the same time.
"Mildred sighed and slowly pushed away from the table. Things hadn't been the same since Barry left. As she cleared the dinner dishes, each clink of the plates was a nagging reminder that she had left some unfinished business in the city: getting the blood off her grandfather's antique watch."
But even with our lack of respect, we're still expected to be entertaining at all hours of the day. People think we wake up funny, and don't quit until bedtime.
"You're a humor writer? Say something funny," someone once said to me on the phone.
"It doesn't work that way. You can't just say something funny out of the blue."
"No, really. Say something funny."
I sighed and said the first thing that popped into my head: "Doody."
"You're not that funny," he said, and hung up.
I'd like to say I went to his house and put a flaming bag of dog poo on his porch, but I didn't. I wish I could say that I lectured him on the great contributions that humorists have made throughout history, but I didn't. I wish I had called him back and told him the funniest joke in the world, but I didn't even do that.
Instead, I sharpened my writing skills, honed my craft, and studied everything I could on the creation of effective humor. And I'm left with one unassailable truth about humor writing that every aspiring writer should know.
"Doody" is hilarious.
=====
Erik Deckers
(published week of March 4th, 2004)
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I'm Not Too Wild About Canned Spam Either
Erik Deckers
Laughing Stalk Syndicate
Copyright 2004
Sometimes I curse the day I ever started using email. Oh sure, it makes communication with people around the world cheap, free, and easy. But the hassle of dealing with unwanted email -- also known as spam -- makes me want to put my foot through my computer screen.
Every morning, when I check my email, there are over 100 messages waiting for me. After my email filters chug through them all, I'm disappointed to find that only five of them are of any interest to me. In other words, only 5% of my email comes from people who actually like me enough to communicate with me.
This has wreaked havoc on my self-esteem.
The rest of the email is unwanted crap from people who have become rich by sending unwanted crap to people.
It's gotten to be such a problem that email spam filters can't keep up with all the junk that comes in. But I have to be careful about what I mention in this week's column, because chances are, a spam filter will block it from ever reaching my online readers.
I receive offers for medicine that will remove fungal growth from my toenails (they sell this stuff in stores already). I have been asked if I would like to buy a low-carb diet plan book for just $49.95 (I can get it for $6.95 at Wal-Mart). And I have even been asked if I would like to increase the size of my. . . personal area (don't expect me to comment on this!).
But email servers automatically get rid of these messages because there are so many of them. So the spammers have come up with a not-so-clever way to beat the email filters: they spell the words wrong.
They don't think, "Hmm, everyone seems to be tired of receiving these emails from me. I think I'll quit." Instead they think, "Wait, you mean people DON'T want to see my latest and greatest offer? You mean people actually HATE me?! Maybe if I spell the words wrong, they'll like me again."
So instead of getting rid of fungus, I now have to worry about "fungs." Rather than going on a low-carb diet, I can go on a "low-crab" diet. And instead of enlarging myself, I can "engrail" myself with cheap "Varagra," "Vaigra," or "Vaagri."
I know spammers don't care if people hate them. They make enough money from the people who buy their product to make it worth the hassle. But why anyone would give their credit card to a guy who can't even spell the name of the product he's trying to sell?
I guess if they're dumb enough to give private financial information to some stranger selling "Vargai" and "nialfungs" medicine via email, they deserve to get ripped off.
Don't forget the attempts to sell me life insurance, download ringtones for my cell phone, or even purchase a subscription to a service that will let me search for lyrics to my favorite song.
I figured out a tip which will also help put those lyric guys out of business: Go to Google.com, type in the title of your song in quotes, followed by the word "lyrics" and hit search. You'll find the song with all the lyrics, and it will be FREE. Take that, song lyrics spammers!
Let's not forget the obvious scams and attempts at theft either. From what I can tell, America is no longer the richest country in the world, it's Nigeria. Apparently, there have been so many oil deals, diamond deals, and weapons deals in Nigeria, that huge balls of money just roll down the streets like tumbleweeds, and they need my help get it out of the country. All I have to do is send them a copy of my signature, my bank account number, and a check for $1,000, and they'll give me half.
I've received phony requests from credit card companies, eBay, and PayPal, trying to trick me into giving them my credit card number and pin number. Last week, I even received an email from someone who obviously learned English as a second language, but tried to pass themselves off as the real credit card company in order to get my credit card information.
I wrote back to the sender, "Dear Thief, If you're going to try to steal from people, it's helpful to spell important words -- like 'credit card' -- correctly, otherwise people will recognize you for the cook you are."
This may open up a whole new realm of writing possibilities for me: spell checker and copy editor to spammers and con artists.
All I need is their credit card number, their bank account number, a copy of their signature, and a $1,000 check.
=====
Erik Deckers
(published week of March 11th, 2004)
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Don't Eat Bar Pretzels Either
Erik Deckers
Laughing Stalk Syndicate
Copyright 2004
There's a scene in the Ben Stiller-Jennifer Aniston movie, "Along Came Polly," where Ben warns Jennifer not to eat bar nuts, because "only one out of six people wash their hands after using the bathroom."
This is more than a little disconcerting, considering during the course of a busy day at the office, you will shake hands with at least five people. And if you're a conscientious hand washer, then statistically speaking, you're the only one who washed their hands the last time after your last pit stop. Which means you now have Potty Hand Germs from five different people.
Unfortunately, I think "one in six" statistic is a little understated. Having been a regular restaurant bathroom user -- and conscientious hand washer -- for many years, I believe a more accurate statistic is "NO ONE BUT ME."
To make matters worse, since I stop to wash my hands, this means they leave before I do. So they grab the door handle. And grip it tightly. And rub their Potty Hand Germs on the door handle. Which means that I have to come up with a plan to exit the bathroom without actually touching the door handle.
The easiest trick is to use a paper towel as a handle cover, and then just toss it into the trash as I walk out. This is becoming harder to do, as more bathrooms have those stupid electric hand driers. I can tell you that restaurant managers get pretty angry when you try to open a door with one of those.
I will also pull my sleeve over my hand, but this leads to additional problems, because now I have Potty Hand Germs on my sleeve. So I usually only do this with my left sleeve, and make sure to roll it up afterward.
I have even had lengthy discussions with my wife about whether it's better to grab the top or the bottom of the door handle with one's pinky (she says bottom, because fewer people grab it there).
Of course, if the bathroom door pushes out, then I'll walk out like a surgeon who has just scrubbed up. However, I have another trick I learned from a pastor friend of mine. This is especially useful in a busy restaurant where Potty Hand Germs are everywhere.
I'm sure you've opened the bathroom door and narrowly avoided smacking the person who was leaving. Try it from the other side: stand in the bathroom and wait for the door to open. When it does, act surprised and leave through the now-open door, without ever touching anything.
But don't think Potty Hand Germs are only limited to the restaurant patrons. I've actually seen restaurant workers use the facilities and then walk out the door.
"Aren't you going to wash your hands before you go?" I asked one guy who was obviously a cook.
"They have antibacterial soap in the kitchen," he said.
I wasn't about to argue, since I didn't want to look like a bigger clean freak than I already did. But I made sure we didn't stick around for dessert either.
I don't know where my obsession with hand cleanliness comes from. Maybe it was when I was about ten years old, and my grandmother told me I could get hepatitis from not washing my hands.
I didn't know what hepatitis was, but I knew it sounded bad, and I didn't want it. At that age, I assumed anything that had "itis" in it was probably deadly, and could be caught from rabid animals, dead animals, or girls. And thus began my hand washing odyssey, insuring that I would stay hepatitis-free forever.
But as worried as I am about cleanliness and hygiene at home, all bets are off when I'm working outside or on a fishing trip. There's just something about physical labor or being outdoors that seems to make men germ free.
I have no problem with grabbing a sandwich or other food item while I'm working out in the garage for a few hours. And I have eaten pizza on more than one occasion while I'm covered in sawdust or drywall dust.
It's because the sheer act of wiping one's hands on an already dirty shirts has a magical cleansing effect. Of course, if you've been doing something particularly nasty, like gutting fish, then you may want to rinse your hands off in the lake before wiping them on your shirt.
After the wiping ritual — three quick up-and-down wipes, front and back — your hands are clean and sterile, and you are free to eat a sandwich, pass food to a friend, and even perform complicated surgery.
Just make sure you wash your hands when you're finished. You don't want to get Sandwich Germs everywhere.
=====
Erik Deckers
(published week of March 18th, 2004)
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Slappin' to the Oldies
Erik Deckers
Laughing Stalk Syndicate
Copyright 2004
Whew, that was a close one. We almost lost Richard Simmons.
It seems that flamboyant fitness fanatic Richard Simmons of "Sweatin' to the Oldies" fame narrowly avoided certain death after tangling with a 255-pound Harley-Davidson salesman at an airport.
The sometimes-called "Queen of Fitness" was in line at the Phoenix Sky Harbor International Airport Wednesday night, when he was hassled by Chris Farney, a 6-foot-1-inch, 23-year-old cage fighter.
Cage fighting is that sport where two enraged muscle-bound men lock themselves in a steel cage and beat the crap out of each other until someone is nearly dead.
According to police, Farney spotted Simmons and said "Hey everybody, it's Richard Simmons. Let's drop our bags and rock to the '50s."
This is where it gets interesting. Instead of smiling and shrugging it off, Simmons told police he felt he had to "bitch slap" Farney. So the two began whaling on each other until a crushing blow to the temple dropped Farney to the floor. Then Richard "Death From Above" Simmons planted his foot on Farney's chest, raised his arms skyward, and bellowed to the heavens in victory.
No, that's not what really happened. He actually said, "It's not nice to make fun of people with issues," and then allegedly slapped Farney on the left side of the face.
I have to say "allegedly," in case Simmons really didn't laugh in the face of death and slap a 255-pound cage fighting biker.
According to a Reuters story, Farney was so stunned he walked away for a few minutes before he contacted the authorities. He told police he wasn't going to hit Simmons, because he was rather frightened by his wild-eyed rage, and was worried that he would be seriously injured.
No, he didn't say that. He actually told police he didn't hit Simmons because he "knew that he was much more powerful than Simmons."
That's not saying much. The little kid from "Jerry Maguire" is much more powerful than Richard Simmons. This isn't David versus Goliath, it's a bug versus a cement truck.
Thankfully Farney didn't retaliate physically. Instead, he did what any red-blooded American male who enjoys crunching the bones of other red-blooded American males would do: he's pressing charges against the 54-year-old fitness guru.
I guess when you're known as the cage fighter/motorcycle salesman who got his butt kicked by Richard Simmons, you need to do something to save your reputation. Although pressing misdemeanor charges against him doesn't seem to do as much as, say, driving his head into a turnbuckle.
I have to admire Simmons' dedication to the people he's helped, and his willingness to possibly be savagely pummeled by someone twice his size. But I am also concerned about the kind of message he's sending to the youth of today.
We try to teach society's children that violence is not the way to solve our problems. "Use your words, not your fists," we admonish today's youth. We want our children to resolve conflicts through peaceful means, rather than resorting to fisticuffs.
So what kind of example is Richard "The Sultan of Slap" Simmons setting for the rest of us? His message of peace, love, and fitness has moved millions of people to take up lives of health and well-being. But will his message be lost amid the Mike Tyson-like violence that threatens to engulf him?
This once-peaceful purveyor of healthy habits has been an inspiration to many Americans as he has helped us lose weight and eat responsibly. He has Dealt-a-Meal his way into our hearts, and shown us how to enjoy sweating off those unwanted pounds to music from the very roots of Americana.
We should never forget all the lives that Richard Simmons has touched over the past three decades. But I have to wonder: will his legacy be tarnished by this senseless act of violence? Can we ever forgive Richard for exacting mayhem on a defenseless 255-pound cage fighter?
Yes we can. Richard has taught us that we are all wonderful people, worthy of love and greatness. And we should extend the same courtesies to him.
And I believe that with some anger management therapy, he will learn to deal with his rage issues. Because only when Richard Simmons comes to terms with the seething, rabid beast bottled up inside his soul can he truly be free.
We believe in you, Richard. We believe in you.
=====
Erik Deckers
(published week of March 25th, 2004)
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