No Joke, Not Funny

Steven said, “Listen… a rabbi, a pope and…”

I said, “Stop.”

“What’s the matter?”

“I’ve heard it.”

He said, “No. You couldn’t have. I just made it up. It’s hilarious. You’ll love it.”

It could have been the first joke ever told and I wouldn’t love it.

“Not likely…”

He leaned in. “Let me try.”

“Do I have to be here?”

“Come on. Let me tell you the joke. It’ll kill you.”

“I don’t want to die. I’m trying to eat my dinner. Seriously, I’ll pass. If I have to listen to one more of your jokes…”

“But this one’s funny.”

“What if it isn’t?”

“Please, Carrie? I’ll make it up to you.”

“By telling another?”

He nodded.

I sighed. “On one condition.”

“What?”

“That you’re done telling it by the time I get back from the restroom.”

“Geez…! You have no sense of humor.”

Hi. I’m Carrie. You just read a partial transcript of conversations on any of the dates I went on with this clown, Steven. Hope I’m not giving clowns a bad name. You like clowns? You’ll love Steven. Take my date, please. Make-up and squeaky nose not included.

Steven is an aspiring stand-up comedian. If there’s one thing this world does not need more of… I learned the hard way, when everything’s a joke, nothing is funny.

How did I get stuck with this guy? Did I lose the lottery? How do I get rid of him?

Remember when you were a kid… and you asked your dad, ‘Can I keep it? It followed me home.’ That was about a lost kitten. Dad would say, ‘Sorry honey. But kittens grow into cats… That would be no.’

Do me a favor, can you keep Steven? He followed me home. No really. You only have to put up with his lame jokes… Please? Give him an occasional saucer of milk… No?

Sheesh! Tough crowd.

We went to dinner and Steven tested his jokes on me. He was preparing for his debut at the comedy club’s open mic night. I went to see his set on our final date, if you can call it that. They should call it, ‘Open mic – close ears.’

Ever been to a ‘comedy club’? What happened to truth in advertising? Of course, it’s not the club’s fault. They’ll let anyone in. Comedy is subjective. The hecklers, the bouncer, and the seats got more laughs than Steven. No joke.

I’ve been to livelier cemeteries than the routine I sat through. Funnier funerals. One could say the audience was jaded. Had taste. Or a sense of humor. How else explain the cacophony of pins dropping in the club that night?

After Steven’s set, the audience demanded a moratorium on fart jokes. They weren’t offended. They thought farts were funnier.

Did I mention that Steven was bad? Unfunny? Dismal…? That’s the word I was searching for.

So, before I knew better, I went to dinner with him at a good Mexican restaurant.

Our food arrived. He said, “This chili is cold...”

“It is? Send it back…”

He scoffed. “It’s a joke… Chili? Cold? Get it?”

Yes, it was a pun. It seemed cute at the time. But after about the hundredth pun, I was looking for some relief from a screaming baby.

He ordered another beer, raised his glass and asked, “Know why rabbits don’t drink beer?”

I said, “I give up.” I meant ‘I quit,’ not ‘I don’t know.’

He answered, “Because it affects their hops… Get it?”

I wanted to scream. I was the cranky baby.

He took my lack of laughter as a personal challenge. My laughing would fulfill his need for approval. He did everything to wear me down with jokes and jibes and puns and quips and…

Part of Steven’s problem is, he lacks timing. He stopped watching the clock when still in high school. He didn’t like the look on its face. Thought it was watching him.

Comics are famous for doing onstage therapy. Compensating for feeling rejected by their mother, they take their anger out and punish the audience.

That’s not Steven. He got plenty of love. He wants more. All of it. He’s not angry. He’s bubbly, effervescent, and boring.

But he is known for holding strong opinions. Some of his opinions are so strong, he can barely hang onto them for more than a few minutes at a time.

He considers himself a pacifist. Not wanting to offend, he never uses punch lines. Instead, he chuckles before each joke. That way everyone knows something hilarious is coming.

Some comedians get laughs with the sad sack act. ‘No respect’ and all that. Steven doesn’t go there. He’s upbeat. He’s energetic. And awful.

Steven should have negotiated a percentage of the bar tab at the club. Audience members were throwing them back like crazy while he held the microphone. Who expected ten minutes to last an eternity?

He only got applause after he forgot one joke’s ending. Hecklers yelled suggestions. Some were pretty funny.

Steven is like a bad penny. Won’t take ‘no’ for an answer. Lucky for me he’s not a used car salesman.

I drove home from work the other night and saw him sitting on the front lawn of my building. I kept driving. I wanted to go home but he was there, marking his territory. I went to drown my sorrows. But not to laugh. Anything but jokes. My life was becoming a joke. And not a funny one.

I feared not being rid of him. He’d become like pulling lint off a sweater. Or static cling cat hair.

Can you say ‘stalker’? I had the apartment manager switch my parking space to where it couldn’t be seen from the street.

How did I get into this? I hate small talk. But small talk is a heavenly chorus compared to endless one-liners. Water torture with a rim shot.

At first, Steven actually made me laugh. He caught me off guard. I thought he was a funny guy. That was before I knew he got his material from a can of corn. What’s the shelf life of a joke?

How many lawyers does it take to change a lightbulb…?

How many doctors does it take…?

How many stand-up comedians does it take…?

How many dates does it take…?

After his set, Steven took me home. All joked out, neither of us talked much. He walked me to the door and assumed I would invite him in. He leaned in for a kiss.

Pulling back, I said, “What are you doing?”

“I want a kiss…”

I said, “You must be joking…”