How Not To Tell A Joke
One never knows where to begin a joke.
The traditional: There was this guy, see, well, he comes down the road,
sees an old friend, and calls to him.
That just won’t work. Who is the
guy walking down the road, and who is this old friend? Where are they? What time of the day, one day
of the week, what month, year, let alone century? So many complications, although the “this”
seems to give us a familiar time and place.
Now something has to establish a pattern: two or three efforts to make
contact, three questions and replies, and three seemingly normal moments
following in succession. Then will come
the break, the shock, the sudden reversal of expectations, the breakthrough of
the hidden and the repressed.
“Hey,” he says, “what’s new?”
“Hey, what’s new? This is the way you talk to me these days? What are we
teenagers, modern jerks who can’t conduct a regular conversation?”
“George, that’s you, and you ask me such a thing when all I do is make a
friendly gesture?”
“Herby,” the other replies, “you think it’s friendly to talk in such a
way nobody of our generation would ever do?”
“For goodness’ sake, George, don’t be a stuck up prig.”
“What kind of a talk is this to an old friend? Suddenly it’s hey and
stuck up? Tell me, you aren’t sick are
you, Herbie?”
So on they go and before you know it they have a fight, turn away, and
that’s the end of a lifelong friendship.
Except on the next day, which is not necessarily one day following, but
only the next time they meet, which could be weeks or months, there is this guy
walking down the road and sees his old friend, though actually by now his
ex-friend, and says to him, “Hey. What’s new?”
They repeat the same routine as above, though this time they add
allusions to the last time they met and put in some new insults. Neither of them is quite sure why this has
happened. But this is just the way it
is. Otherwise, of course, there would be
no joke. For the moment it doesn’t seem
like a joke.
Then comes the third encounter. Maybe
two or three years later. The same two
friends, Herbie and George, the same strange way of speaking and the even more
bizarre violent reactions. And then,
what everybody has been waiting for, the meeting of the two friends which
breaks the pattern and gives the shocking revelation of what it is all about.
“Hey, what’s new?”
“No start that again. Let’s
settle this once and for all.”
“Settle what? I still don’t know what is upsetting you.”
“Nor I you.”
“Well, let’s go sit down somewhere, in a café, have a cup of something,
and talk this out.”
“You really think we can? After all, this crazy stuff has been going on
for far too long.”
“Why not?” asks Herbie.
“Why not?” asks George.
So that’s what they do. Perhaps they are still talking, for all I know.
But if you don’t see any point and don’t think this is a joke, probably
not only do they—and I am having my doubts as well.
The only thing to do, therefore, is this:
One guy walks down the road. He sees
someone on the other side and calls out a greeting. The other guy rejects the greeting.
“What’s the matter, George?” says Herbie.
“What do you mean? My name is not George.”
“Are you sure?”
“But you know me, I am Herbie, your old friend.”
“I don’t think so.”
Well, pardon me, Mr High-and-Mighty.
I guess you are too much a big shot to recognize your old friends.”
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