You know that person who goes to parties and can rattle off a bunch of jokes?  That person is really smart. Why bother to write jokes and take your chances when instead you can rattle off someone else’s and score a hit every time? There are many, many times I envy that person. When a standup comic goes to a party and reveals what they do for a living, the first thing people say is “Tell me a joke.” And here’s where I run into trouble.

I don’t know any.

There are entire websites and blogs dedicated to jokes. An endless supply of freebies out there for the taking. I asked a question on this blog a few posts back, if audiences cared whether jokes were stolen or not. Recently I read somewhere online (seriously, the web is too big. It’s making me miss encyclopedias, and how scary is THAT?) Apparently, audiences don’t care. 

I had a comic friend, Larry Amoros, who was possibly one of the best joke writers in the business. The Tonight Show accepts jokes by fax but only if you qualify. To do that, you have to submit a page of jokes that are current, about politics or pop stars or other train wrecks on the radar. When Larry was first asked to submit ONE page, he sent in ten. Needless to say he got the gig. I once used him to help me punch up a book a psychotherapist had hired me to work on. Writing jokes about suicide and manic depression were no problem for Larry. For me, yes.

Larry also knew all the current party jokes which brings me to this story. One day I was on the phone with my boyfriend du jour and he told me this joke:

A man walks into his son’s bedroom and finds his son masturbating.
“Son, if you keep doing that, you’ll go blind.”
“Over here, Dad.”

I did not laugh. That joke is older than Hugh Hefner. It’s what comics call ‘stock.’ Stuff guys at Shriner’s conventions use. As I had just spoken to Larry and he had told me a really funny joke, (which of course I don’t remember) I repeated it to the boyfriend. When I finished HE didn’t laugh.

“What’s the matter with you? That joke was really, really funny.”
“You don’t laugh at my joke, I don’t laugh at yours.”

Apparently I was dating a fifth grader. Months later this same boyfriend and I were driving back from one of my gigs north of Los Angeles. I had a great show and this proved too much for this guy.

“Hey, did you hear the one about a man who walks into his son’s bedroom and finds his son masturbating?”

I said nothing. Maybe I drove into a tree.

“Son, if you keep doing that, you’ll go blind.”
“Over here, Dad.”

I laughed and laughed and laughed. Then I drove into a tree.

CYA this Friday.

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