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Louis CK: “Everything is amazing, and nobody is happy”
What I needed to hear after a day on airplanes yesterday:
Everybody on every plane should just constantly be going, “OH MY GOD! WOW!” You’re flying! You’re sitting in a chair in the sky.
“If you’re going to tell the truth, be funny, or they will kill you.” — Billy Wilder
Frank also posted recently about the similarities between jokes and philosophy.
When I was growing up, my philosophers were comedians: Richard Pryor, George Carlin, Bill Hicks…
Lumping Vonnegut in with Carver and McCarthy (both of whom can be funny, but not explicitly so) seems weird: Vonnegut was first to point out that most of his books were structured as a simple series of jokes…Some of my favourite “gag” comedians are effectively cartoonists, drawing absurd short films in your mind’s eye using just a few simple words. The deadpan US comic Steven Wright is a notable master. “I went to the hardware store and bought some used paint,” he drawls. “It was in a shape of a house.” Charming, yet somehow anarchic: like something from a Tex Avery animation.
The late Mitch Hedberg was equally brilliant (if you’ve never heard of him, look up his albums online). “The thing about tennis is that no matter how much I play, I’ll never be as good as a wall,” he complains. That’s a funny idea in itself, but Hedberg instantly tops it: “I played a wall once. They’re fucking relentless.”
In each case, brevity is key. I assume these gags stemmed from the comic in question making a passing observation (eg “I suppose you could argue that walls are intrinsically better than people at tennis”), remembering and noting it as funny, then trying to cram said observation into the shortest space possible, while still leaving room for their unique trademark rhythm (in Wright’s case, blankly laconic; in Hedberg’s, twitchy-yet-stoned). As demonstrations of condensed poetic skill go, they’re as impressive – to me at any rate – as the works of, say, Raymond Carver, Cormac McCarthy or Kurt Vonnegut.
Buddy [Hackett] was a student of the science of comedy. His favorite Las Vegas stage was at the Sahara. “I was offered twice the dough to move to a certain hotel,” he told me, “but nothing doing. Comics who work that room always flop. There’s a physical reason for that. The stage is above the eye lines of too much of the audience. At the Sahara, the seats are banked and most of the audience is looking down at the stage. Everybody in the business knows: Up for singers, down for comics. The people want to idealize a singer. They want to feel superior to a comic. You’re trying to make them laugh. They can’t laugh at someone they’re looking up to.”
And here are the ten rules:
1. Know the joke.
2. Never step on the punch word. If at all possible, the punch-line should end on the word that reveals the joke.
3. Use a four-letter word if the joke requires it.
4. Never explain.
5. Do not elaborate unnecessarily.
6. Never repeat.
7. Beware of accents.
8. Be careful about ethnic or religious jokes.
9. If it’s a long joke, it may better funnier if it is told quickly.
10. If the joke really works, you can bend a few rules, but not Rule #1.
Groucho Marx’s resignation joke
From Groucho and Me:I’m not a particularly gregarious fellow. If anything, I suppose I’m a bit on the misanthropic side. I’ve tried being a jolly good club member, but after a month or so my mouth always aches from baring my teeth in a false smile. The pseudo-friendliness, the limp handshake and the extra firm handshake (both of which should be abolished by the Health Department), are not for me. This also goes for the hearty slap-on-the-back and the all-around, general clap-trap that you are subjected to from the All-American bores which you would instantly flee from if you weren’t trapped in a clubhouse.
Some years ago, after considerable urging, I consented to join a prominent theatrical organization. By an odd coincidence, it was called the Delaney Club. Here, I thought, within these hallowed walls of Thespis, we would sit of an evening with our Napoleon brandies and long-stemmed pipes and discuss Chaucer, Charles Lamb, Ruskin, Voltaire, Booth, the Barrymores, Duse, Shakespeare, Bernhardt and all the other legendary figures of the theatre and literature. The first night I went there, I found thirty-two fellows playing gin rummy with marked cards, five members shooting loaded dice on a suspiciously bumpy carpet and four members in separate phone booths calling women who were other members’ wives.
A few nights later the club had a banquet. I don’t clearly remember what the occasion was. I think it was to honor one of the members who had successfully managed to evade the police for over a year. The dining tables were long and narrow, and unless you arrived around three in the afternoon you had no control over who your dinner companion was going to be. That particular night I was sitting next to a barber who had cut me many times, both socially and with a razor. At one point he looked slowly around the room, then turned to me and said, “Groucho, we’re certainly getting a lousy batch of new members!”
I chose to ignore this remark and tried talking to him about Chaucer, Ruskin and Shakespeare, but he had switched to denouncing electric razors as a death blow to the tonsorial arts, so I dried up and resumed drinking. The following morning I sent the club a wire stating, PLEASE ACCEPT MY RESIGNATION. I DON’T WANT TO BELONG TO ANY CLUB THAT WILL ACCEPT ME AS A MEMBER.

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