Humor can be dissected, as a frog can, but the thing dies in the process and the innards are discouraging to any but the purely scientific mind.(Footnote 1)
E. B. & Kathryn White
When a bit of writing is introduced with a quote, it’s a safe bet that the person behind the keyboard intends to either defend or disprove it. As I try to be expansive of view, I’ll do a bit of both. Admittedly, the larger bit is reserved for the latter intent, because, y’know, that’s more interesting.
We’ll take the scenic route via a day when I was vacationing at an amusement park along America’s right coast. I’d been clackitied to the precipice of what had been billed as the wildest, scariest, most thrilling steel roller coaster yet devised. The plunge below seemed downright enthusiastic in its promise to deliver.
The plummet began and immediately — immediately, I tell you — the track rolled us to the underside. It seemed impossible that we could have developed sufficient speed and inertia to keep us in our seats, creating the impression that only the safety bars snug against our laps could be preventing us from taking a more direct route to the ground. The traditional screaming ensued as instinctual fear kicked in, but I, although moments ago set to join in the vocal festivities, did no such thing. I was not scared. At all!
The reason, I assure you, was neither courage nor stoicism. It wasn’t because I’d seen previous riders emerge with no ill-effects beyond slightly wobbly knees. Nor was it because I had faith in the designers’ firm grasp of Newtonian physics.
No. It was because I had been quite literally struck stupid with amazement. Any primal voice from my brain stem trying to scream, “Aaaaaah! We’re gonna die!” was drowned out by some analytical mental circuit bellowing demands to know why the bloody hell my body wasn’t even attempting to fall. The necessary pressure remained between my buttocks and the seat, not between my belly and the safety bar. It made no apparent sense and my rational mind was having none of it.
A second or so later it ended with us back atop the rails, hurtling towards a rapid bank.
Now here’s my question: Does the fact that my hair didn’t do its anticipated raising during the ride’s undisputed scariest moment mean that the coaster didn’t live up to its marketing? You could argue that. And yet what I just described was absolutely my very most favoritest roller coaster moment ever, more thrilling in its unexpected way than the usual highly hyped visceral rush.
Compare and contrast. It’s years later and once again I’m sitting, albeit stationary this time. I’m in a theater at a Society of American Magicians convention, where Jay Marshall is beginning the ventriloquist section of his act. If you’re not familiar with Jay and his hand-puppet Lefty, you’ll find a most enjoyable link below.
Marshall introduced Lefty with a joke I must have heard him tell on the Ed Sullivan show when I was a tyke, but I’d happily forgotten it. Thus, I heard at it afresh with a far-beyond-tykeness humor writer’s ears.
What followed was much like that initial twist on the aforementioned roller coaster. While the crowd around me laughed, my brain shifted gears. I sat there mouth agape, funniness analysis mode in overdrive, mentally breaking down and examining a blazing jewel of comedic crafting.
Yes, I’ll tell you the joke, but first I’ll apologize for already raising your expectations a wee bit overhigh. You see, this particular witticism was a masterpiece in the context of its birth: 1950’s/early 60’s America. It was an order of magnitude less side-splitting against the 1990’s background of that convention. I’ll never prove it, but I’d bet that if you could have mapped where the laughs originated, you’d have found that the loudest and longest sprang from the bellies of those old enough to mentally place the remark in its proper time. You can imagine, then, how I fear to disappoint you here in the 2020’s.
Keep that in mind, because here it is:
I’d like to introduce you now to a very fortunate young man. He has a wife . . . and a cigarette lighter . . . and they both work.
I expect reactions will once again correlate with age. Readers who find the line funniest will be those who best recall when an average family could live all comfy — savings and periodic new cars and vacations and everything — on one person’s income, and when the frequent failed flicking of a flip-top cigarette lighter was a universal trope. That group includes me. If it doesn’t include you, I hope you can see your way to appreciating why us geezers might bust a gut at the punchline.
At issue, however, is not how funny the joke is but how probing it with a metaphorical scalpel affects its ability to tickle. In this case, there’s enough underlying material for a CSI: Haha analysis report far longer than you’re probably willing to read. Which brings us to where the Whites and I agree.
Most people are indeed quick to lose interest in unbolting the moving parts of a joke. Presented in writing, the relationships and interactions of all the itty-bitty parts make for reading dryer than James Bond’s martinis. You’d have to be a special kind of linguistics and psychology nerd to get into it (no offense to my fellow special kinds of nerds). That’s why, way back in my first post, I made only the most cursory exploration of why my father, bother and myself differed in our reactions to a certain joke and why I won’t be doing any deep diving here, either. Instead, let me throw a few questions your way.
- Suppose Jay had reversed the order, saying instead, “…has a cigarette lighter… and a wife….?” How would that have effected the FQ (Funniness Quotient)?
- What if there were no pauses after “wife” and “cigarette lighter?”
- Would you call the use of the word “work” a pun? Why or why not?
Is the joke any less amusing after considering those questions?
I won’t kid myself, let alone you. There are, indeed, some who will say, “Yes, you ruined it for me you bastard.” Others will grin, delighted with new insight. Speaking for myself, after twenty-some years of popping bits of that gag apart and snapping them back together, I still find it a downright knee-slapper. I’d wager I’ve derived many times more mirth from it than did those who laughed heartily in the theater but who have since left it unexamined and forgotten.
That, my friend, is no dead frog. That’s a frog who rejoices in its anatomical survey, singing and dancing like Michigan J.
Comedy writer Gene Perret, who’ll no doubt be mentioned in future posts, worked on the legendary Carol Burnett Show. He told of a sign on the head writers desk reading, “There are few experts on comedy, and even they disagree.” Gene noted that while the writing staff found that droll, some thought it would be funnier if it said, “…and even we disagree.” There would be, according to Perret, long detailed arguments over the matter.
I can only imagine what a roomful of professional jokesmiths brought to those debates. I’m pretty sure they left the witticism dissected, shredded, and scrutinized umpteen ways to Shrove Tuesday. I’m even more sure that the group never stopped finding that sign funny. How do I know? Because they argued the matter repeatedly. Dead frogs do not incite such passion.
None the less, I can’t doubt that Mr. and Mrs. White were speaking the truth of their experience when they claimed that sticking one’s nose too deep into humor’s vital organs blots the giggles. I’m certain that Woody Allen, Marty Feldman, André Maurois, Barry Cryer, and others who’ve reportedly used the frog analogy since have found it true in their own lives.
The Whites and company see a joke that has ceased to be.(Footnote 2) I and a bunch of Carol Burnett writers see one energized, livelier than ever. The frog is dead. The frog is alive. Schrodinger triumphs again.
But here’s where Schrodinger’s frog differs remarkably from its feline cousin. The cat remains simultaneously alive and dead only until it’s observed. Our amusing amphibian, on the other hand, maintains its dual status indefinitely, its ever variable wave form collapse depending on who, at the moment, is doing the observing.
So how does it look to you?
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Here’s Jay Marshall performing his classic Lefty act for a special event in the theater of his own Chicago magic shop: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hos1XW8Dcmw
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(Footnote 1) This is probably the original version of a sentiment that has often been rephrased and ascribed to others. If you prefer a different rendition (and there are good reasons why you might), feel free to mentally substitute your favorite for the one I used.
(Footnote 2) Insert here the obvious portion of Monty Python’s dead parrot sketch if you’re so inclined.