Before beginning this post I was standing in the bullpen, the bullpen for humorists, the corner bar at Smitty’s. Some of us were sitting on the bench. Some were cranking out one-liners on a legal pad.
The phone rang. God calling. But for who? Burkett answers the phone. He nods, says, “Alright.” Then hangs up. “Duvall, you’re up.” He calls in my general direction.
I pull out an Underwood and start with the old quick brown fox routine and then dive straight into a first person monologue about streaking naked through my house on wash day.
I down a scotch and it takes the nerves with it. This is the big time.
I’m given the nod, finally. Then I take my place on the mound. Deep breath. I narrow my eyes at the audience and then having seen their souls, I begin.
The field of jocularity is a game of inches and averages. A 55% success rate will get someone to call you a legend. Probably.
Living by your witticisms and dying by the silence. You either kill or you die. That is the like a humorist or a hitman.
All this to say that I have a cartoon on Little Old Lady Comedy as of yesterday afternoon and an article coming out on Greener Pastures this morning. You can also see the other bits on the published work page.
Ha! A commercial! You din’t see that coming’! That’s a twist! That’s comedy, baby!
GO look at them, please.
If you laugh 55% of the time, I am a legend.