Random Jokes

Samplings From My Notebook

Audio Version

I was having trouble coming up with a funny topic for this month.

I thought I should venture back into political satire with all that is going on, and the havoc we are wreaking on the world. I was thinking about doing something about that Josef Goebbels doppelgänger, Stephen Miller. Or “Green Army Man” Pete Hegseth. Or maybe that southern-fried barnacle of a United States Senator, Lindsey “Scarlet O’Hara” Graham, who, as a political organism, cannot survive on his own but must attach himself to a more charismatic host like John McCain or Donald Trump.

The Orange Julius Caesar himself has ruined satire. Just as he has destroyed everything else he’s touched—casinos, the United States Football League, functioning democratic government—this duly elected ignoramus has destroyed satire. The late-night comedians merely have to play clips of him speaking to get a laugh. No spin necessary. It’s too easy.

Plus, for me to write about this gang of ghouls, I have to research them, absorb their ethos, live with them for a while. And right now, I’m just not in the fucking mood. I have plenty of serious thoughts about Iran, Gaza, ICE, Ukraine, the price of gasoline, but that’s not what I advertise. That’s not where my strengths lie.

Instead, I’m punting. I opened up the Notes app on my phone. That’s where I collect jokes, funny notions, and half-baked comedic ideas that might merit further exploration. So this month, I present to you some of these random jottings, a menu of various items of comedic detritus that I hope raise a chuckle in these tumultuous times.

Speaking of which, throughout my career in comedy, which has been my entire adult life, people inevitably say to me, “It’s good to laugh. Especially in these times.”

I heard that in the ’80s, the ’90s, the aughts, the twenty-teens, right up to the present moment, “It’s good to laugh. Especially in these times.” And I have to confess, it’s been good for business. My dad was in the industrial painting industry. Troubled times work for me the same way rust worked for him.

Apparently, there has never been a time we don’t need to laugh. There has never been a time when someone says, “Do you want to hear a joke?”

“Nah. Times are great. I’ve laughed enough.”

This is for those of you who haven’t laughed enough yet.

Enjoy…

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I spend a lot of my waking life unsubscribing from emails. They try to bury the link in subatomic print at the bottom of the page. Sometimes at the top. Either way, they make you work to find it.

Most of the time, the response is immediate and straightforward. “Sorry to see you go.” They’re good sports about it.

Other times, I’ve gotten the response, “Your unsubscribe request has been sent,” as if they’re considering it but haven’t quite made up their minds.

Like I’m supposed to think, “Gee, I sure hope I make the cut.”

I’m not applying to college here; I want you to stop sending me shit. I’m not waiting for my case to be adjudicated.

“I’m sorry. After further review, your unsubscribe request has been denied. The board has decided that despite what you may think, mister, you do need to GET HARD AND STAY HARD!”

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Spent a weekend in Goodyear, Arizona, with my brother to see some Spring Training games. Next to the hotel was a restaurant called “Bag O’ Crab.”

That name sounds both unappetizing… and sexually transmitted.

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At the end of a meal, waiters always say, “Can I get this out of your way?”

I want to say, “Yes, please, I was trying to design a rocket engine with my 3-D printer until you interrupted me with this plate of food.”

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The worst thing a waiter can say to you: “Don’t worry. I’m not contagious.”

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Seasoned, professional servers have a way of making you feel special. I arrived in DC for a Public Citizen board meeting last year in time to catch some dinner by myself at an outdoor restaurant. The waitress asked me if I was ready to order. I said, “Yes. I’ll have the gnocchi.”

She said, “Amazing.”

She struck just the right tone, just the right lilt in her voice. It wasn’t as if she was treating me like a toddler who had just made his first poopy in the toilet. She was enthusiastic about my choice, but not too over-the-top.

Then I said, “And the arugula salad.”

“Amazing.”

Obviously, I was on a roll here. What do I do now? Do I keep going? Do I order one more thing and risk a different reaction? Or do I quit while I’m ahead?

I decided to go for it.

“And a side of Brussel sprouts.”

“Amazing.”

DING! DING! DING! It’s like the menu was a test and I got all the right answers. With all the items on that menu, what were the odds I would have guessed gnocchi, arugula, and Brussels sprouts? I hit the trifecta!

I hate to think what would have happened if I’d said, “I’ll have the ravioli.”

BUZZZZ.

“I’m sorry. That’s the wrong answer. You have two more guesses.”

Or would the reaction be more nuanced?

“I’ll have the margherita pizza.”

“Meh.”

I know it’s her job to make the customer feel good. “She probably says that to everybody,” I thought. But then I eavesdropped on her taking the order of a couple at the table next to me.

Guess what?

Not so amazing.

In fact, not one single Amazing.

Just a couple Okays.

I really am amazing!

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What’s more annoying? Talking with food in your mouth? Or waiting for someone to finish chewing before they answer your question?

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The Squatty Potty: it’s like taking the express over the local.

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The American Ornithological Society has committed to replacing the names of birds named after historical figures with racist pasts. So say goodbye to the John Wilkes Booth Budgie, The Himmler Heron, and the David Duke Yellow-Billed Magpie.

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I got a call from a friend of mine, who didn’t answer when I picked up. She immediately texted, “Sorry, butt dial.”

It got me to thinking that the butt dial is one of the many things that separate homo sapiens from the rest of the animal kingdom. For instance, an ape, which shares 99% of our DNA, can say, “I can shove a stick into a rotting log and pull out termites.”

And I can say, “Oh yeah, smart guy? I can dial a telephone with my butt!”

When I was young, there was no such thing as the butt dial. Phones were large heavy contraptions. You’d have to shove one of those things all the way up your ass and then wiggle around, especially if it was a rotary phone.

Then you’d have that long, curly cord hanging out of your ass. Like a cat who ate Christmas tinsel.

“Honey, were you trying to make a phone call?”

“How could you tell?”

A butt dial sounds like an insult, but it’s really a compliment. It’s a way of saying, “A part of me was thinking of you. It was my butt. But still.”

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It was about five or so years ago I heard of a trend called the “gender reveal party,” where soon-to-be parents gathered friends and relatives and exploded either blue or pink powder into the air to let the assembled know whether their child was male or female.

Putting aside the gender binary presumption, a number of these parties ended in tragedy: wildfires, forest fires, environmental degradation, death by shrapnel. That’s the problem with getting men involved in the whole prenatal, baby shower spectrum of activities. We like to blow shit up.

There is a reason they only give those micro-loans in Bangladesh to women. Because they know the women will feed their families. The guys will spend the money on guns and booze. And blowing shit up.

Remember the old Letterman show, when they dropped a melon from the top of a building and watched it explode on the ground followed by slow motion replays? I don’t know this for a fact, but I bet the lives of my children that idea did not come from a woman.

I think it begins with the farting, our first experience with explosions. It’s that primal Big Bang. Most women I know are embarrassed and disgusted by farts. Men, we take pride in them. Nothing like that moment you realize your butt is your personal Red Ryder with a concealed carry permit.

I was about to say that nowhere in recorded history has a woman lit a fart. But after some searching on YouTube, it turns out that’s not strictly true. I typed in “woman lights fart.” And sure enough, there were some examples.

Of course, the very first entry was…

Man lights girlfriend’s fart.

So my research proves that even though this activity is not exclusively gender-based, the preponderance of evidence indicates that fart lighting is yet another industry dominated by men.

How about instead of gender reveal parties, we have “character reveal” parties? Wouldn’t that be more useful?

Congratulations! It’s a boy! And he’s an asshole!

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And now I return you to your regularly scheduled outrage.