A New Joke for Humanity

LOL!  LMAO!  ROTFLMAO!

(It's all good.)

As many of you know, I happen to be somewhat of an inventor. And in my sincere hope of bringing merriment and joy to the world, I have invented a totally new form of humor!  

I call it the New Joke for Humanity. (pat. pend.)

Never mind the fact that last year I invented the world's first pair of pants that makes you look Jewish.  Although I was quite proud of the patented "Crouch Control" spandex  feature, not only did my pants fail to catch on with the American public, I'm facing lawsuits from half a dozen men who bought them including one guy who came down with something called "Inverted Penis Syndrome" who's being represented by Alan Dershowitz.

But the New Joke for Humanity will be different. 

We live in an age crying out for humor. "Shit My Dad Says" still has three million followers, Kristin Wiig is given a send-off on Saturday Night Live as if she were Charlie Chaplin, and in some remote pockets of the northernmost reaches of the central United States, Jay Leno is considered sporadically amusing.  

So several weeks ago I retreated to my Comedy Laboratory  (Note to Self:  Invent Comedy Laboratory)  intent on creating  a joke guaranteed to make you laugh your bejesus off!  BTW, unlike your ass, you can survive quite well without a functioning bejesus. 

After weeks of working feverishly without food, drink, or rest --- which will be condensed into an action-packed montage when the movie is made --- I fashioned the first three prototypes of my New Joke for Humanity: 

• "I just can't remember how you describe an article of clothing for someone of average build," the medium sighs.

• "I just can't remember the name of that famous drag queen," rued Paul.

• “Be-be, be-be,-be-be, I just can’t remember the name of that animal with the-the q-q-q-quills,” Porky opined. 

Cute premise, huh?  Thank you very much!

How do I know I have actually invented this revolutionary new joke format and that no person before me has ever scaled the heights of this incredible Mt. Everest of Comedy? 

Frankly I've conducted extensive and painstaking research in dusty libraries, esoteric museums, out-of-the-way antiques shops, and third-rate comedy clubs all throughout the world (or Google has) and found only one instance in history of the existence of a similar joke. That joke was delivered by an obscure young Greek comic named Drolius at open mike night in the Athens Lyceum in 427 BC. 

He did orate as follows:

• "As sure as I am  the greatest philosopher of all time, I forget what I did to Plato that night he and I spent together in a cave," butted in Socrates.

It didn't get a laugh.  Drolius went on to sell aluminum siding for Ionic and Corinthian split levels.  

So when it comes to the New Joke for Humanity, I be da man!

Here, Humanity!   A few exemplars of the world's newest joke to LOL you to sleep:

• "As sure as I am the former star quarterback for the now defunct Baltimore Colts, I can't remember the name of the country I live in," Johnny Unitas states.

• "As sure as I am the popular older actor named Van Dyke,  I just don't know what I should have done to show my new young wife that part of my body I want her to pay most attention to," pointed out Dick.

• "I can't seem to remember how I got that tough stain out of my shirt last week," Ida shouted out.

• "As sure as I am the founder of a University in Baltimore named Hopkins, I just cannot remember what my former wife who is a trial judge does when she picks up her gavel to keep order in the court,"  Johns expounds.

• "I can't seem to remember the name of the capital of American's second largest state," Austin texts us.

• "And as sure as I'm a famous British actor named Michael, I can't remember the name of the second largest city in Washington State," spoke Caine.

• "As sure as I'm the founder of Motown, I can't remember the name of that small round red fruit," rasped Berry Gordy.

• "As sure as I'm the late Chicago author named Turkel, I just cannot remember what happened that night when everyone on the Chicago Bulls had sex," Studs ejaculated. 

Want to play around with the New Joke for Humanity yourself?  Be my guest!   But you better do it now!   Once the patent issues, there will be royalties.  Big time. 

"Because as sure as I'm that young-looking sportscaster named Bob,  never forget what'll happen if any one of us tries to make unauthorized use of Perry's invention," jokes Costas!  

Humanity is one thing, my friends.  Business is another!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"I just don't remember what happened that time we had sex twice in one night," he came back at her.

Lonely at the Top

Alopecial Angst!

In the early days of male pattern hair loss, it’s more a matter of paranoia than blank patedness. 

Back when I was 22 and had lost fewer hairs than there are today liberal Republicans in the House of Representatives,  I walked around saying things like: 

        I'm bald!  I'm bald! Help me, I'm bald!!! 

        Who’s ever gonna want to date me now?

        (Well,  I'll finally find out if bald guys really do wax their heads!)

As I raged against my follicle-free fate, I had hair several inches below the bottoms of my ears, McCartneyesque bangs, and a hair dryer that fairly well gasped every time I post-shower pulled it out from inside the bathroom cabinet.

But when I regarded myself in the mirror, I saw actor Yul Brynner. Minus the cool.

I tried the remedies of the day. But brushing 100 strokes so clogged my comb, by stroke 70 or 80 it resembled the upper lip of former TV film reviewer Gene Shalit. Immersing my head in Jojoba Oil rendered me an enormous Caesar Salad, irresistible to any wandering intergalactic giant bent on lunch and a chrome-dome Perry.

No war refugee, no homeless person, no liberal Republican in the House of Representatives could ever be as woebegone as I.  And no reassurance from friends and family could convince me that my inner Brynner was in truth closer to an outer Jagger!

Off I went to the dermatologist who calmly advised me that,  yes, I had the beginnings of male pattern baldness. 

That is, a death sentence.   
 
“What on earth can I do?!!!”  I cried.

“The best you can do,” he counseled “is develop philosophic acceptance of the situation.”

Philosophical acceptance of the situation?  

Maybe Plato could develop philosophic acceptance of the situation.  At least until Socrates stopped taking his calls and began showing up with Aristotle at the dance!

Now I burned even greater time and intensity agonizing o'er my fate.   There may yet be hope I reasoned; when it came to being bald, certain distinct looks can win the day. 

As with, say, Yul Brynner.

But  ruggedly masculine, I was not.  My best claim to fame was “cute.”  And in the world of the bald, "cute" is what closes in New Haven!

A few more long-suffering years of alopecial angst and then one day a miracle did appear!  A possible reprieve became available, not from the governor but from Rogaine, then a prescription medicine named minoxdyl.  

I feverishly garnered a blessed script from a more sympathetic (and balder) dermatologist, cradled it, coddled it, and filled it.

And minoxdyl did indeed prove highly effective …. in thinning out my wallet,  along with  my hair.

In my 40's,  the reassurances slowed, became ever more interlaced with homilies about my alleged nice personality, and then stopped.  My hairline beat a steady retreat, my bangs went bust,  my replacement flips flopped, and desperate times in time called for a desperate measure: 

 A Full Nicholson! 

Minus the cool. Way minus the cool.

Now life's devolved into an endless cycle of increasingly shorter haircuts at increasingly taller prices,  progressively greater grooming for progressively lesser grooming results, and at last the elusive philosophical acceptance, at least of a sort.

So what have you learned about baldness, Dorothy?

• First noticing some of your hair’s not there?  Relax.  Most of us have more time than we think. But sow those wild oats now before someone thinks to plant them atop you.

• Bald guys don’t wax their heads, young’uns!  The baldest among us dream we're Bon Jovi, not Mr. Clean. Plus the cool of either one!

• When you ain't got it, my friend, you ain't got it, my friend!   Toupees, hair weaves, Donald Trump comb overs?   Forget 'em!   But conditioners, thickeners, root lifters?   I'm keeping them in business.

Thinning out my wallet, along with my hair.

Oh, for the days of Male Pattern Paranoia!

~~~~~~~~~~

                           

I’m  bald, I'm bald, help me, I'm bald!