I confess it. I have not gotten much done since I got the first half of my Pfizer vaccine on Friday evening. I have been lazy and kinda ill for the entire weekend. But I am not feeling any lingering reactions to the medicine at this point. So, reposting an old post for today was simply a matter of me still being lazy. I will get back to regular daily posting later on… maybe tomorrow… but maybe not.
It will probably be clear that I am writing this post because I am currently reading 1941 daily strips from Al Capp’s Li’l Abner.
But I am definitely going to talk about corny jokes, not cheesy jokes, because I grew up in Iowa, not Wisconsin.
And, yes, that is example number one.
There is a certain way of telling a joke or tall tale that is unique to the farmyard. And it does not contain chicken poop, but rather, corn.
Of course, as you can see by this corn-colored definition of what corny means according to Collins Online Dictionary, the word is supposed to be an insult to corniness in jokery. That doesn’t sit well with the people of Iowa, where the tall corn grows. We are also obvious, sentimental, and not at all original. And we are proud of it.
To tell a corny joke right, you have to set a simple scene, and make it clear what happened, and give the audience a simple cue for when to laugh.
For instance, there was the time that Cudgel Murphy had a cat problem with his car, the 1954 Austin Hereford that he has driven since dinosaurs walked the earth. It seems there was this time in 1988 when he kept having engine trouble. The engine would sputter and cough and die, and when Cudgel opened it, he would find a half-eaten dead pigeon or other random bird carcass gumming up the works. He couldn’t for the life of him figure out how dead birds were getting into his car engine. But his grandson Danny happened to see the neighbor’s big tabby tomcat carrying a pigeon he had killed under the front of Grampy’s car, apparently enjoying a fowl meal in the dark with a nice warm engine to lay the food on. Sure enough, when they checked the engine later, there was the half-eaten dead bird laying across one end of the fan belt.
So Cudgel set up a vigil, assigning times for himself, Danny, and his younger grandson Mike to watch for signs of that damned cat taking another bird under the hood of the Austin. With only two day’s worth of watching under their belts, Mike came running into the Murphy kitchen with the news.
“Grampy! I seen that damned cat taking a dead bird under your car! He’s in there right now!”
So Cudgel rushed out, turned the engine on, and stomped on the gas.
There were some worrisome thumps and bangs under the hood, and then the cat shot out from under the front of the car spewing howls and cat curses all the way up the nearest tree.
Cudgel laughed hard and finally caught his breath to say, “How about that, Mike? I’ll bet James Bond doesn’t have a car that can shoot angry cats out the front!”
Now, before you chastise me for enjoying cruelty to cats, I hope you will remember that Cudgel Murphy is a fictional character, and I am merely illustrating the idea behind corny jokes. And, besides, that cat really had it coming to him.
I have rather regularly been revising and editing old writing. One thing I have discovered is that I am capable of the most gawd-awful convoluted sentences filled with mangled metaphors and ideas that can only be followed while doing mental back-flips or managing miracles of interpretation. That last sentence is a perfect example of purple paisley prose. Paisley, in case you didn’t know this, is a printed pattern on clothing or other cloth that makes an intricate design out of the basic twisted teardrop shape borrowed from Persian art. The basic motif, the teardrop shape, is a leaf or vegetable design often referred to as the Persian pickle. I write like that. You can pick out the Persian pickles in this very paragraph. Alliterations, mangled metaphors, rhyming words, sound patterns, the occasional literary allusion, personification, bungles, jungles, and junk. “How can you actually write like that?” you ask. Easy. I think like that.
To make a point about mangled metaphors, let me visit a couple of recent scenes in novels I have been working on;
From The Bicycle Wheel Genius; page 189
Mike Murphy and Frosty Anderson sat at the kitchen table eating a batch of Orben’s pancakes, the twentieth try at pancakes, and nearly edible. Mike could eat anything with maple syrup on it… well, maybe not dog poop, but these were slightly better than dog poop.
From The Magical Miss Morgan; page 7
Blue looked at Mike and grinned. It was an impish and fully disarming grin. It made Mike do whatever Blue said, even being willing to eat a lump of dog poop if she asked him to, though she would never ask him to.
So, here’s the thing. Why is there a repetition of the dog-poop-eating metaphor? In one case it is Mike Murphy expressing in metaphorical terms his love of maple syrup. In the other, it is Mike Murphy expressing his love of Blueberry Bates’ dimpled grin. He is a somewhat unique character, but why would anybody associate love with eating dog poop? I don’t know. I just wrote the dang things.
I like to take a convoluted plot and complicate it with complex sentences and numerous running gags, with a seasoned-sauce of mangled metaphors poured on top like gravy. I will use sentences like this either to make you laugh, or give you a headache. I’m almost sure it is one of those. So if you have gotten this far in this post without a headache, then I guess it must be funny.
Officer Eric Talley lost his life trying to protect the public from a supermarket killer.
He had seven children.
I can do nothing but cry about it.
Life is poetry.
It is all about finding the perfect words to express the meaning of the universe…
Every day….
Because every day has a deeper meaning.
Can I pray to it all… constantly?
Cleaning up the environment, reversing pollution of air and water, and saving our planet takes everybody working together in a sustained and difficult effort.
But it only takes a few to mess everything up.
Most dogs will love you and obey you unconditionally.
But, if you routinely curse and beat and abuse that dog, eventually… It will growl when it sees you, and bite you when you come near.
Why does anyone ever choose to be that kind of dog-owner, that kind of person?
It is not in my nature to be the wrong kind of dog-owner. Or the person who throws trash in the creek. But I cannot change the nature of other men. Is the situation hopeless?
I surely do Hope not!
Can I pray to it all… constantly?
Life is poetry.
It is all about finding the perfect words to express the meaning of the universe…
To be a writer, you always have to have something to say.
That’s what being a writer is.
And when you have something to say, you have to say it. And you have to use your best skills to say it well.
I took years and years to collect and organize what I wanted to say. I gathered thoughts and ideas by being a public school teacher. Not just talking to and learning from a select few kids, but every kid and any kid that God saw fit to throw in front of me. Even the crazy ones and the evil ones.
And then, I had to decide how to say what I was going to say.
Would I write an autobiography? Like retired teacher Frank McCourt did with Angela’s Ashes?
Or would I try to fight against my prosaic inclinations and write poetry like Walt Whitman did with Leaves of Grass?
Or maybe essays like Henry David Thoreau in Walden?
Or would I try to explain my world view and the wisdom it contained through fiction like Harper Lee did with To Kill a Mockingbird?
Obviously, I lean heavily towards fiction. Of my 19 published books, only two of them are not fiction. The ones that are not, Laughing Blue (barely visible in the terrible photo,) and Mickey’s Rememberries are both made up of the best essays from this blog.
And since I am now published, both through publishing companies and as a self-published author through Amazon KDP, I can examine my work and it’s public impact to try to determine what kind of a writer I really am.
Looking at this totally scientific graphic shamelessly borrowed from someone else who borrowed it shamelessly on Twitter, I can safely say I am not The Greasy Palm (I am a terrible salesman, proven by my book sales numbers every single month since I learned how to read that,) The Ray of Sunshine (My books only fly off the shelves during tornados and earthquakes,) or The Bitter Failure (because I am too ignorantly happy with myself most of the time to be that.)
So, hmm… that leaves….
Well, I confess to Space Cadet. That is what helps me be happy. And I do get enraged by some of the things that I am moved to write about, but I am definitely not a journalist. I prefer fiction.
But that last one is the most likely. Assuming I am actually Creative and Talented, and not just deluded. I definitely don’t have anyone advocating my literary genius. And my house does not have a basement. My bedroom prison during the pandemic is on the second floor.
So, what would I be if I were not a writer?
I would make a good time traveler.
It seems I always know exactly what I would change if I had a time machine disguised as a soda-vending dispenser that, for a quarter, could take me back in time to do-over points in my life.
I would ask her to dance with me in Miss Malkin’s Music Class instead of chickening out.
I would have told him that he saved my life when he answered my phone call that Saturday afternoon. I never actually told him I was thinking about killing myself, and probably would have done it if he hadn’t been there to prove to me that I had friends who cared enough…
I would tell my much younger self that I would not regret deciding to be a teacher instead of a cartoonist.
I might have made a good nudist. I like being dressed only in sunlight and good nature. I wrote a book about being a nudist. You can see it in the picture where I am trying to make you believe I am nude while holding it. Actually I had pants on. But that is not nearly as funny. I gave up notions of naturism in order not to have parents look at me funny while telling them about their “wonderful kids” during parent/teacher conferences.
What would I actually be if I couldn’t be a writer? I really have no non-joke ideas. I need to be a writer, even if nobody wants to read it.
I am still writing, still trying to get ideas and stories down in sentences, paragraphs, essays, and tales.
But the work is getting harder.
My computer is wearing out. The glitching has gotten steadily worse. And the way the stimulus/tax/price-pf-gas computation works out will determine if I can squeeze out enough money from my budget to replace it.
I have untreated glaucoma in diabetic eyes. So, being able to see is getting harder.
Of course, diabetes is also threatening me with heart attack or stroke.
But all of these are just excuses. I am hoping to write and publish more. I have some great ideas. And I will make more writing happen. The last few weeks have been mostly watching TV while in pain. I’ve seen some excellent shows. Especially WandaVision on Disney Plus. But, if today is not the end, then more will be written. Just as I have done in this posting, I will overcome the difficulties.
The Super Rooster sat down softly on the green just outside the Palace of a Thousand Years. The grav engines even more softly whirred off. It can be surprising to see a starship land. Because pilots always talk about “blasting off,” you tend to imagine roaring fire coming out of interstellar engines with powerful photon drives. But starships use the anti-grav engines for planetary travels, especially for landings, and those purr like soft-furred gray kittens with their tummies full of milk, if they bother to make any noise at all.
Ged came striding down the gangway with purpose and furious energy in every step.
“Shen Ming-dono! Where is your army? And is Jai Chaing recovered enough to lead them? We need him!”
Shen Ming smiled and quickly moved to meet Ged with a multitude of very tiny steps.
“Um, ah… the army is not here right now. And you remember that we had Jai-Chang-sama in custody for his own protection.”
“Well, we have a situation that requires an army. Can we at least give Jai-sama a chance to redeem himself?”
“Ah, so… you see… Jai-Chang has escaped custody. The whole army is chasing him.”
“So, nobody is available?”
“Well, there are your faithful students…”
“Good. Let’s get them together. We must deal with a fascist incursion on a planet we just discovered. They have a oppressing army of plant-warriors called Throckpods we must defeat, and an evil dictator called the Grainmaster we must overthrow.”
Nervously, Shen Ming gathered the remaining students.
“Hassan Parker, Mai Ling, Taffy King, and Shu Kwai… Wait, is this all that are available? Where’s Rocket and Phoenix? Freddy? And Jackie?”
“Um, ahem… they are away on a little mission for me,” the old man said shiftily.
“Well, these will have to do.”
Ged handed a supply list to Shu.
“Get me these things for the invasion. We are dropping onto a hostile planet where everything is alive and sentient. We have a war to fight and a dictator to overthrow.”
“Yes, Sensei!” said Shu obediently.
Shu recruited Taffy as a telekinetic to help him float the supplies to the space ship.
“Will you be coming with us, Shen Ming-dono?”
“Oh, no… no… I have things here to take care of. Irons in the fire, one might say.”
“Very well, then. We must take off again as soon as we are refilled and loaded with those supplies.”
“There are material synthesizers aboard, you know, Ged-sama.”
“Yes, but not as good as the real thing. We need some serious weed-killer and yard-trimmers. This is no easy opponent we face.”
“Weed-killer? Yard-trimmers? Most not-easy indeed, my friend.”
Phoenix knew they were doomed if he could not handle Bone Daddy by himself. He knew Rocket and Freddy had already fallen. He wasn’t sure if Jackie and Alec had made it away, but if Bone Daddy escaped him, then he was sure all the White Spiders would eventually fall to him.
Then, phasing through the wall behind him, Bone Daddy was suddenly there.
“So, Phoeni! You and Alec have both come back to us.”
The fireball in Phoenix’s hand grew hotter. He knew that the wraith’s phasing ability would allow almost any weapon to pass clean through his suddenly massless body. The trick would have to be unpredictable, and capable of rendering the wraith instantly dead or defenseless.
“I’ve come to destroy you, Bone Daddy. And if Alec has returned, or hurt Jackie, I’ll destroy him too.”
“Child, more than any other teacher you ever had, you were mine to teach. Your skill and your cunning, that came from me!”
“But your treachery and evil, I never took from you. I didn’t want those things. And you never saw that in me.”
He stared at Phoenix with those mostly empty eye sockets. There was orange fire blazing in those mostly invisible eyes. It was hard to read any expression on the face of a wraith. It was like looking into a milky-white skull imbedded in a head made of clear glass.
“You were my favorite, Phoenix. The best I ever taught. And I am glad at the last you came back to me. Because I alone have the right to kill you for betraying the Black Spider. ”
Phoenix chose that moment to strike. Bone Daddy had never seen him use the flame-sword psionic move with sun-plasma intensity. He and Rocket had developed it in secret.
“And I alone have the right to slay you, my favorite teacher.”
The white-hot blade that burst forth from the fireball in Phoenix’s hand arced around three-quarters of a circle, slicing three quarters of Bone Daddy’s fireproof blade, forcing both his own blade and Phoenix’s into a deep cut on his left shoulder.
Had he wraithed into phase-ghost form, the strike would have gone clean through him and probably vaporized his heart even in phase form, killing him instantly. He had saved his own life by anticipating the trick. But had sustained a possibly fatal wound anyway.
“You honor me, boy. That was the best attack you have ever done.”
The wraith-ninja in purple armor dropped to his knees. His truncated sword fell from his hand.
“Surrender. You don’t have to die,” Phoenix said with tears in his eyes. He hated this alien being. But not as much as he loved him.
“What would you do with me as your prisoner?”
“Convert you to the White Spider side. You have skills you can still teach to us.”
“Ah, but this wound is probably my doom in any case. Just because you can’t see my blood, it does not mean I am not bleeding. Cut off my head and end it quickly.”
Phoenix raised the fire-sword to do just that when he was interrupted.
“Not so fast, young pyro. Your friends have all fallen. You are surrounded and alone,” said Fangwoman wearing the Avenger helmet.
“Yes, we have our fire crew here to put out your pesky flames. We were prepared for your return,” gloated the Green Phantom. Phoenix dissipated his fire-sword and turned towards the Black Spider leaders and their fire-fighting crew. There was an ironic smile on his face.
The homeless man wandered onto center stage just as the spotlight went on. He shaded his old eyes against the brightness and looked outward into the dark theater. It was probably some kind of mistake.
“Oh, so now it’s my turn to talk, eh?”
There was no response.
“Well, if you’re expecting something funny to come out of my mouth, good luck with that. More than half of what I say that makes people laugh is the result of depression, ill health, and just plain ignorant stupidity. And the other half of it is not meant to be funny, but is because I don’t always understand what I am saying.”
There was an embarrassed chuckle somewhere in the darkness.
“I mean, you can’t expect too much from me. I’m a bum. I have no money. I have no job. Not having any work to be bothered with is kinda good. But the other thing kinda sucks.
And all the great comedians that used to stand on this stage and try to save the world through humor are dead now. It’s true. Robin Williams died recently. George Carlin, Bill Hicks, Richard Pryor, and Bill Cosby are all long gone.”
There was some nervous laughter in the theater.
“Oh, I know, Cosby only thinks he’s dead. But he kinda killed the character delivering the wisdom in the form of observational comedy, didn’t he.”
“But most of them old boys tried to come up here and tell you the truth. And the truth was so absolutely unexpectedly wacky and way out of bounds that you just had to laugh. And the more wicked the humor, the more you just laughed. You didn’t do anything about the problems they talked about. But you sure did laugh.”
“It seems like the more they told you the truth and the more you just laughed about it, the more old and bitter they got. Sardonic? You know that word? Not sardines, fools, but sardonic. Bitterly humorous and sadly funny. Seems like a lot of them old boys got more and more bitter, more and more depressed up to the end. More and more sardonic.”
“I mean, Carlin was calling you stupid right to your face at the end. And you just laughed it off.”
The theater had grown eerily silent.
“But it ain’t all bad, is it? I mean, at least you all can still laugh. Only smart people get the jokes. The ones Carlin moaned about were laughing because everybody else was laughing. Those weren’t the ones we were talking to. There’s still life out there somewhere. Maybe intelligent life. Maybe aliens ain’t located any intelligent life on Earth yet, but they’re still trying, ain’t they?”
“You shoulda listened more carefully to what they were saying. Life and love and laughter were bound up in their words.”
“So I guess what I’m really saying is… just because I happened to get a rare chance to say it to you all… learn to listen better. The voices are quiet now. But the words are still there. And laughing at them is still a good thing. But remember, you need to hear them too.”
The theater suddenly filled with the roar of a standing ovation. The old man bowed. And this was ironic because… the theater had always been empty. No one at all was there now.
Catch a Falling Star 