The Funner and the Funnee

My name is Click Dark.  To you I seem familiar.  You may think you know me and miss me but you don’t.  Yes, I'm dead and gone, but most of the world did not have a chance to see me or laugh at my jokes.  I was called, The Comedian Who Could Not be Heard.

It's not really my fault that no one could hear me.  How was I to know where the “on” switch was to the microphone?  With no mechanical aptitude, pride kept me from asking for help.  So I pretended it was part of my act.  My words became too profound, too funny to be heard much less understood.  That was the facade.  

Every time I stepped on stage I was struggling for attention while groping for the “on” switch.  To the audience it looked like I was doing this on purpose.  Some people would laugh, others stared.  I thought of myself as another Andy Kaufman – strange and misunderstood.

I would have dazzled you!  I had wit and song and humor – but, alas.  I left body suddenly when by accident I managed to muster the mic “on.”  I still don’t know how I did it.  I was promptly electrocuted by faulty wiring.  The joke was on me.  My career was only just getting started.  A few people remembered me when it happened.  They read about it in the morning paper and shouted, “Hey remember that guy at the comedy club that never talked?  He’s dead!”

For those who never witnessed my act, here’s the reason you think you have heard of me.  Indeed you have, but only in barely audible whispers.  I wanted my death to mean something so I told myself I was leaving body in the name of comedy.  It became my self-appointed duty to watch over all comedians (and people who think they are funny).  I give away ideas and punch lines to those who listen.  There is a catch - you have to be aware enough to hear me or at least imagine you are hearing something.  Remember that little voice your mother told you about?  Well it turns out there’s a few voices available.  One of the little inner voices will make you laugh.  That is me!  See, you really have heard of me (that is, heard me). 

I am the omniscient jester.  If you are funny, more often than not you can thank me.  Listening to conversations all over the world (and just about every language), I interject wit or a funny observation.  I have to admit it was pretty nifty when I passed away and suddenly knew all languages.  Evidently we humans can do that. 

What I give most often to searching comics is something off color and obscene.  If you want humorous and imaginative you have to listen much closer.  A better joke is the reward for being more attentive.  It is my job to perk up the cadence and tighten the delivery.  When you hear me, go with it - see how funny you can be.  In the process you will lift up all of humanity.  I’m not bragging too much.  After all, a good laugh makes everyone feel better. 

Think of me when delivering that “knee slapper!”  I'm your muse and I'm not getting paid for all these great jokes I bestow upon you.  I don't even expect a by-line.  Just get the punch line right.  Is that too much to ask?

It’s all in the name of being funny.  I'm the “funner” (the joke giver) and you are the “funnee” (the joke receiver).  So don't get cute and rearrange the story or shorten the punch line.  I know best, you're just the recipient of heavenly humor. 

I’m the humor source funneling ha-ha’s all over the world.  If the Blessed Virgin brings peace then I bestow the belly laugh.  If the world is filled with humor violent people might be rendered helpless with squirming laughter.  We might forget how to shoot at each other.  Imagine!

June at the Valhalla of Massage

I took a deep tissue massage at the new day spa a few blocks from my place of employment.  It cost $75 and thirty minutes of my life to have my shoulders, neck and head manipulated, or were they shattered?  That was a lot of money spent but I was sore and achy and in need of a break.  What was to unfold I could not have known or understood before meeting Ruth.

She was a short, petite redhead and was my “gatekeeper” to The Valhalla of Massage.  She escorted me to a room where a heated massage table with clean crisp white linens was available for me.  June shut the door behind us and began whispering orders with a toothy grin.

"Take your clothes off and place them on the chair," she noticed I was a little shy.  "Don't think anything of it, honey.  I'm a therapist and here to heal your neck and shoulders."  I dropped my drawers and squatted behind the table hoping the mirror on the wall didn't reveal anything to June.

"Lay down on your front, please," said June.  She was holding a sheet by the corners and slightly above her head, which concealed me from her eyes.  I leaped on the table before June lowered the sheet and could see my overexposed parts.  She threw the sheet over me and the ordeal began.

June squirted some oil on her palms and rubbed them together to spread the lubricant.  Grabbing my shoulder and squeezing with her fingers and thumbs I felt my clavicle rebel at the pressure.  With a palm on my triceps and the other on my shoulder June began to rotate the left side of my upper body.  She being so petite I thought I would assist her in the movement.

"Don't do that!  Let me do it."  I was wondering how she said things with such authority in a whisper?  My shoulder was creaking and groaning like my dad's derelict Ford F100 Pickup from 1960.  I thought about complaining but I was afraid she would make it hurt worse.  Anyway, she didn't look like she would be tolerant of any criticism.  I muddled through and tried not to bite my tongue.  A lot worse was to come. 

June, the destroyer, moved over to my right shoulder.  That’s where the pain really began.  Cartilage, sinew and bone heaved and buckled inside my shoulder.  The pain was so intense I saw visions; first a bright sun burst then stars, then a white light.  Could this be the end?  Is this the way I’m to go, at the mercy of Madame Mao?  The light was so inviting.  I wanted to go to the brilliance.  Clearly I was seeking immediate relief and not “thinking.”  I’ve read enough about near death experiences to know what to expect.  I knew that the closer I moved to the light the less the pain and the pressure of the “psycho fingers” assaulting my flesh would matter.  This turned out to be correct.  I was ready to go – to abandon the table, the massage therapist and my entire life.  June should be paying those who will survive me instead of collecting a fee from me.  But, as they say, it wasn’t to be.  Escaping the pain was not an option 

June’s voice was whispering in my ear and pulling me back to the pain on the table.  "Now turn over, darling," there was a sadistic tone to the word “darling.”  Maybe I was imagining things.  Anyway, I rolled on my back and she repositioned the sheet to cover me.

Fingers sought out and found strategic points on my head.  She was shifting my neck to the left then the right then the left.  Her fingers felt like carpenter’s nails driving through my skull.  I wanted to scream but I couldn’t catch my breath.

Somehow I remembered the lyric to a Rogers and Hammerstein song; June Is Busting Out All Over.  Perhaps if this song amuses my malevolent masseuse she would ease up on the massage.  Regaining my breath I sang,

“June is bustin' out all over
 The ocean is full of Jacks and Jills,
 With the little tail a-swishing'
 Ev'ry lady fish is wishin'
 That a male would come
 And grab 'er by the gills!
 Because it's June...

 June, June, June
 Just because it's. . .

“June, June, June! You have to stop!” I heard the words spilling out of my mouth but it didn’t faze June.  She kept right on the assault.

“Oh, my Lord. . .

I began a prayer but couldn’t keep my mind on my thoughts. 

“It hurts, it hurts!”

“Oh, silly bugger, I’m not hurting you.” 

I tried to get up and off the table but she was too strong.  With one hand she pressed on my skull and the other she slammed me back on the table.  I felt like a calf at a rodeo roping contest.  June had me down on my back and might as well have trussed up my arm and both legs into a bunch.  No less humiliating for me.  However, the attack suddenly stopped.  The maelstrom of pain and panic subsided.

I cancelled the singing and the praying abruptly.  Her fingers finally were off my person.  No more shoves, no more pokes, no more powerful hands manipulating my neck.  It was like the surreal peace after the bombing of Dresden.  A strange hum seemed to be emanating from me somewhere.

“There you are,” said June. 

“Where,” I asked.  I had forgotten I was in a strange room and tied to a rack.  The fog lifted when I realized the torture really was over.  The redhead, June, had stood down and I was still alive.  My bones were not shattered.  Muscles and joints seemed intact.

“I’ll leave you to put your clothes on,” said June, the crusher.  I survived but I couldn’t get up.  The room was spinning and I felt nauseous.  I managed to roll over the edge of the table and onto my feet.  That’s when my head began to throb and my eyes blurred. 

Oh boy, I just remembered I have to drive.  I’ve heard of designated drivers for drinking.  It never occurred to me to have one after a massage.  I sat in my car and considered my options.  

My eyes were not focusing so driving was out of the question.  I could sleep this stupor off, but there is a real possibility of being mugged.  I could walk but it’s 15 miles to my house and I can’t see the road.  I just spent my last $75 on the massage; there was no money for a cab. 

Hmm, who could I impose upon to drive me home?  Who owed me a big enough favor that would get them up out of their evening meal to rescue me from my dilemma?

About this time June, my bone manipulating gate keeper to the chamber of horrors, walked out of the building.  “Are you alright, Deary,” she asked me with genuine concern.

“Uhm, I’m not well enough to drive myself home,” said I.

“Oh, honey, I can’t leave you here alone and in trouble.  I’ll take you home.”

Wow, it just goes to show how little I understand human nature.  Once again I have misjudged the situation and allowed my emotions to cloud reality.  We jumped in her little green hybrid vehicle and sallied into the dusking sun.  I would be home soon, all because of June.

An Aging Jeep

I drive a jeep.  Actually, the letters on the hood spell out J E _ P.  An “E” fell off; there is a yellow place where the E used to reside.  So technically I drive a “Jep” - an old one.  Old cars have brittle parts.  I drive slowly so nothing breaks.  Drive with care and spare a repair is my motto.

However, expensive things are starting to go wrong.  The ease of transport between home and destination is becoming a thing of the past?  The “Jep” needs several repairs but the situation is a victim of faulty mathematics.  The numbers don’t ad up because there is not a big enough number in my bank account to match the number on the repair bill.  I have few prospects.   A frustrating account of my vehicular mechanical problems follows.

One of the valves that keeps the coolant from leaking out of the cooling system is dripping badly.  This seal happens to be positioned above the transmission.  In order to service that valve it takes seven hours to remove the transmission and then reinstall it after said valve servicing.  That's about a $420 undertaking.  I don't even have $20 to put to the cause.   So coolant leaks, sometimes a lot.  I’m vigilant but I don’t trust the cooling system enough to drive to work.  The “Jep” is in good enough shape to take Joey to school or to go to the grocery store.  These are all close runs and I know the coolant won’t leak completely away.   The engine wont burn up.

That said coolant isn’t cheep.   Money, money, money is always the issue.  So when will it be more cost effective to pay for the repair instead of pouring coolant and money into the radiator?  I’m not sure but I’ll know when I reach the point.  Anyway, it’s irrelevant.  I have eight bucks for coolant.  I don’t have $500 for the repair.

The A/C doesn’t work.  It needs refrigerant I guess.  I’ll get that taken care of when I have a spare $100.  The heater works but the fan motor emits a shrill noise.  It’s always a battle between my stressed ears and the need to keep warm.   So I turn it on then off then on again.

There's a big problem with the front end.  If I hit a bump and the jeep is moving 50 mph or faster, the right front wheel develops a powerful shimmy.  This is an overwhelming shutter that feels like the wheel might break off.  The only way to get the front end to simmer down is to stop.  That can be a problem in the middle of traffic on the Interstate.

A less lethal problem is the driver's door.  The inside door handle no longer works.   That means I have to roll down the window and press the exterior opener to exit the “Jep.”  Sometimes this doesn't work.   I guess the angle of my thumb on the outside opener does not allow the latch to disengage.   If I weren't such a fat ass I could crawl over the floor shift and escape through the passenger door.  There are days when I have to wait for a neighbor to notice my predicament.   

A three year old toddled by the last time this happened.  Unfortunately, he couldn't reach the door handle to open it.  With a promise to bring his mommy back to relieve my problem, he disappeared into his house.  That was the last I saw of him.  Little boys and their mommies are too busy exploring the world and therefore not very reliable.

So I waited a little longer.  A big friendly dog trotted past and was curious enough to jump up and rest his front paws on the door.  I could tell he was confused.  Why was this human sitting in his vehicle?  It was obvious the dog knew enough about humans to know that vehicles usually roll away when people are inside them.  I patted him with a reassuring touch.  He trotted off after slobbering immensely on the door.

Now I began to panic because I had to pee and I was hungry.  Desperation dictated daring action, like crawling out the driver’s window.  This meant my back was resting on the sill of the door window as I was shoving my heels into the seat.  I felt like a turd, a jeep turd, and the “jep” was terribly constipated.  When my midriff was finally positioned on the door I had reached the point of no return.  Relief finally arrived; the miserable human was evacuated like so much flabby excrement.  My head and shoulder crashed onto the pavement followed by my ample ass.  It wasn't pretty and it hurt - but I was out.  I won’t do that again.  Hope the “Jep” has hemorrhoids.

The “Jep” doesn’t go on long excursions anymore.  If I had a mechanical break down and couldn’t open the door I might be stuck for a long time.  I would be in peril of becoming a part of the habitat - a landmark on the shoulder of a road.  No money and a cell phone rendered useless by insufficient bars for reception could do this.  Local residents might start including me in there directions.  I can hear it now. . .

Drive a mile down route 59 past the 

sad fart in his broken-down jeep. 

Turn right at the next drive.

The lesson to this missive is simple; make enough money to at least repair this wretched jeep.  It would be nice to buy a newer car.  With that in mind I have decided to raffle the “Jep” off and with it my cares.  I’ll sell $5 tickets.  People owning no car might jump at the chance to buy a clunker for five dollars.  When I collect enough proceeds for a down payment on a better car I’ll draw a raffle ticket from a can.  Some other poor schmuck can take ownership and deal with this ailing jeep.  I hope they have long enough arms to open the door.

Delusions of a Fledgling Filmmaker

Anticipation and hope are filling up the movie theatre.  Filmmakers are milling around wondering how well their projects will stand up to all the others.  Everyone wants an award; best picture, the audience choice, the critic’s choice.  Egos are plump and minds are loaded with delusions of as yet unfulfilled potential.  It must be film festival time.

Actors, ancestors of filmmakers, teachers of filmmakers and celebrities are piling in now.  Even you-know-who is here to introduce classic movies, just like he does on AMC.  The film producer with all the credentials and fame is present and waiting for his Lifetime Achievement Award.   Projectors flicker to life in the screening rooms.  Lights dim and the bright lights of movies and dreams fill the air.

This is a contest.  A barometer of how well people like what you do.  It’s a situation that tests tender egos and lavishes praise on souls born under a helpful star.  Amazingly, I am here with my little film.  I’m hobnobbing with successful producers and filmmakers.  I plan to put my face in front of as many people who will allow me to invade their space.  I’m up and coming and I want them to notice me.

Confidence is everything.  I have a thought; what if my film wins an award.  How will I ever handle all the success?  I could morph from a starving want-to-be into an arrogant newbie who just won his first award at a film festival.  That might get ugly.  I’ll have to work on being cordial and unaffected by my towering ability.

What will I say to people at the Q and A after my film is shown?  This is a good time to flash my personality.  If I’m charming maybe no one will notice how new I really am.  I can say things like . . . 

       “We had fun and tons of good ideas.  That’s what

        makes a good movie.”

or . . . 

     "Making movies is a collaborative art.  You have

        to be a team player."

I’ve been accused of behaving in a self important manner.  So I will smile and answer the questions with grace and humor.  Dazzle them with my personality is what I will do.

What if I find distribution for my movie?  Is it possible that people would really find my work entertaining?  I could be stepping into an amazing lifestyle.  Could this be the beginning of my career? 

It’s always been easy walking into restaurants.  Nobody knows who I am or what I do.  If my film generates a lot of interest I might become well known.  I might have trouble shopping at the food market.  There might be fans out there who want me to autograph their banana in the produce section.  Will the world change that dramatically or will I?

Fellow students at film school will treat me like an established guard in show business?  Oh well, what they do is none of my business, as long as they pay to see my latest movie.  I guess I can help them with advice.  I’m sure the school will invite me to speak when I become a notable movie mogul.

It’s about time, my movie is about to be shown.  I’ll sneak in at the last minute.  If I sit in the back I can see the show and listen for the reaction of the audience in front of me.  I’m so excited!

Last night I dreamed I was arriving at the festival parking lot.  Somehow I fell out of the car.  Wait a minute!  I was dreaming I was a cop chasing a bad guy into a movie house that was playing my movie.  After locking the breaks and sliding to a halt, I opened the car door a little too soon.  I felt the momentum of the car forcing me off the seat and out of the car door.  I was on my butt, sliding on gravel and cement.  Luckily the multitude of fans queued up to see my movie stopped my forward motion when I crashed into them.  It’s amazing what fans will do for you in a dream.

An Argument for Abduction

Abductions are mysterious.  The absence of those taken is terrifying and overwhelming.  Initial explanations lack sound information.  Often the real reason is bizarre and unacceptable. 

Stealing a person away from a life filled with friends and expectations is a desperate act, but is it always destructive?  Can such a shift in place and consciousness always be an evil assault?  One’s intention to grow and contribute to the big picture of human evolution might be accelerated by provocative acts that pull us away from what we know is real?  The broad vistas of who is and what is are sometimes obscured by each day’s allotment of living.

The news is filled with longing for loved ones departed.  Are they murdered?  Have they run away?  Is a person’s perplexing exit always the product of some ulterior interference?  Can it be less than sinister when someone vanishes?

Let’s consider the possibility that when a person disappears an outside force has absconded with them.

The History Channel is loaded with documentaries about people no longer habiting their normal lives.  So many talking heads are convinced those gone have encountered space aliens.  Does this mean that all abductees are stripped of clothing, tested and probed?  Do you have to come from Alpha Centauri to qualify as a proper abductor of beautiful blondes and dumb farmers from Alabama?

Perhaps our abductors are closer to home and much less exotic.  But, there is an important question.  At this point in history is it possible for cultures to coexist on Earth and not know of each other?  There are Amazonian tribes that live unaware of the perks and privileges of “civilization.”  Can there be people, fellow humans, much more advanced than we on this planet now?  Where are they and why don’t we see them.  Maybe Bigfoot is much more intelligent than we give him credit.  Are there souls out there that consider our “civilization” to be backward and bellow their abilities?  Wait a minute!  We’ve been to the moon.  We may be ignorant, but when blind greed and lust for power are taken out of the equation we can be fairly intelligent.

Certainly there are odd things happening on this planet that are hard to interpret.  There are millions of flying vehicles in the sky and some of them look weird.  However, “weird” seems to fly as well as “conventional.”  Are those who fly weird aircrafts fellow citizens of planet earth?  Could there be an exalted world yet to be discovered by we who exploit the internet and broadcast the news?  What about smart phones.  Why can’t our mysterious fellow inhabitants just give us a call? 

If we are not at the top of the totem pole then who is and where are they?  We have satellites roaming near space that photograph every inch of the earth.  How could such advanced people hide so easily from us?  Granted much of the Earth’s surface is covered by water.  Do these guys hold their breath indefinitely?  Maybe the Titanic was not sunk by an iceberg but abducted to the briny depths by God knows who.  The boat might have stumbled upon an icy entrance to the lair of these unknown people.  The Titanic’s long missing passengers could be having tea and crumpets, enjoying life with unfathomable folks who have learned to live way beyond above ground human years.  Abductors and abductees are possibly getting along just fine.  It could be that every ship that has sunk in bad weather or torpedoed in war have instead found their way to an underwater destination that provides 3 squares and plenty of O2.

If they are really here and hiding from us how could they stand by for so long and allow us to destroy the environment?  We’re stressing their home too.

Are these elder brothers so advanced that they are impervious to our shenanigans?  Hell, we blow up sophisticated weapons that fowls the air and who knows what all.  We build nuclear reactors in earth quake zones without really considering the dangers.  Alright, maybe we’re not so smart. 

How stupid can we be?  The possibilities are staggering.  Perhaps big brother is waiting for us to take a good look at ourselves.  It’s time to contemplate the places out there beyond our reach.  The wilderness may not be so savage if it is populated with folks owning better credentials than we.

Perhaps it is better to not venture out into unknown parts.  If we don’t know what they look like we could step into a trap like a moth into a spider’s web. 

These mysterious neighbors of ours might not be carbon based.  If they are very different than we, they may not need oxygen or nitrogen or carbon dioxide.  Perhaps we see them everyday and fail to recognize a superior intellect.

Consider an intelligence permeating the dust that collects in the corners of our culture?  Is it possible to step over something in our daily lives that is so superior to humans?  That place where the bubble gum is fast stuck to the bottom of a table might well be a bastion for these superior folks.  They live where we find living repugnant.  Perhaps each grain of dirt beneath our feet is intelligence so exquisite that we haven’t a clue.  Is their hunger for knowledge so strong that they take such ignorant abuse doled out by you and me? 

They monitor and keep vigilance.  Is it curiosity that motivates them?  Is it so important to expand their knowledge they do anything to glean the last bit of information.  To know a little more could be the ultimate quest.  

The universe from the vantage point of this little peeble in space we cling to is a vast recepticle of the unknown.  We may be on the edge of the Milky Way but the hunger to understand may be the most important ingredient of the recipe that makes us human.  This may be the commonality we share with our abductors.

If at some point you lose yourself and can't find a way back to what you were.  Relax, you were probably abducted by some idea or person or intity.  To them it was obvious you were bored and needed a nudge to get back into that fertile curiousity that makes us want to know.