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The Comedian's Notebook
by M. V. Montgomery

Some of my best ideas come to me while I’m out cutting my grass. So if anyone out there is stuck for ideas, they should come over to cut my grass, too.

Is that anti-acting spray they use on players at the World Cup?

Ouch. That German player took one right in the kindermaker.

Can’t watch any more Donald Sterling interviews—I’m worried his face is going to break.

“I’m finished with it.” Does that mean you are done, or not?

For some reason, people are always asking me what “MV” stands for. Mind you, I didn’t pick up a lot of physics in school, but that’s an easy one: Mass x Velocity.

I couldn’t tell you if that movie last night was a “tragedy” or a “drama.” For me, it was more like a trauma.

It would be funny if comedians who are just starting out got to practice on cadavers. Talk about valuable training for dealing with a dead crowd.

Making the motion you make with the tool when you are trying to find a tool.

I’d like to create a character known as the Pollen Detective. He’s able, once a year, to follow the traces of a suspect anywhere. And looks like the Invisible Man wearing hat, scarf, dark glasses.

Or, you could have a story about a dream detective who is able to identify all the suspects in his dream because they are all himself. Whoa, dude!

It would be horrible if a vampire tried to convert you in Iceland in June. One hour or less of darkness? Seriously, you couldn’t work in those conditions.

Sadly, I’ll never be arrested on suspicion of being the Slender Man.

I’m obese, but not morbidly so. I try to maintain a positive outlook.

I could work out, but I’m just too afraid of becoming an exercise addict.

That’s a flattering sweater. No I didn’t say flattening—not at all!

Ouch! I was just undressing you with my eyes, and a button must’ve scratched a cornea.

“No, not for me,” I politely declined. “I’m not a fan of reading romances, breakup stories—any of that turgid, emotional stuff. Oh, sorry. Were you offering me Chic-lets?”

Gosh, I miss the desert. If you are going there, please hug a cactus for me.

In my language, ears shall henceforth be known as “the leaves of the head.”

The kind of person who sees the toxic lining in every silver cloud.

A professor once pulled from his pocket some wadded-up pieces of paper he claimed were novel ideas that he’d carried around with him for years, until they’d hardened into “paper pills.” But I knew the guy—probably all those supposedly great ideas of his would turn out to be placebos.

That would be a great idea for a candy: Placebos. “Placebos, the sugar candy that not only makes you feel better, but actually does make you better 10% of the time.”

Social networks are the new royal flatterers, the yes men.

We speak of “intestinal fortitude,” “having the stomach” for things, and even of stirring up courage “in one’s bowels.” You might think I’d be making fun of that, but no. I’m actually thinking of joining the Bowel Movement.

“I complained of loose stools at the bar, and the bartender handed me a screwdriver.” My god, that’s a double-double entendre!

Single double-entendres: “A blown kiss opportunity.” “No piquing.”

How many gnats can screw in a light bulb?

Fun Activity: create your own horror movie soundtrack. Someone does the baby crying, and others pick from the machine saw, animal howl, strange echo, chanted nursery rhyme, and ghostly “why?” All at once, now!

“Virulent” in e-mail strands can have three meanings. “Much viewed,” actually “containing a virus,” or “angry.” Possibly a fourth meaning, too, if you’ve never cleaned your keyboard.

The prisoners have a sense of humor in your state! I saw license plates beginning with PIG, PEE, POO, and PFF as I drove in today.

Like to bite my toast into the shape of Minnesota.

My summer stigmata of wasp stings and poison ivy scratches.

Not on Twitter, but sometimes I’m on the shitter.

Test-tube babies: vial bodies.

Porn name: Christopher Throbbin’.

I heard a commentator state that watching porn is the equivalent of seeing pictures of food w/o eating anything. But it seems to me it’s more like viewing pictures of food with a beef jerky.

Republican candidate: “I’m not a scientist, I just purport to know more than scientists on scientific matters.”

Ted Cruz: legislator who tries to adjudicate from the pit.

Tell me, how do you get your art nutrients? Perhaps an étude, Bruté?

Does putting one’s art on display make one an exhibitionist?

Laertes—not thinking straight from the get-go.  Hamlet—breaking bad.

Ophelia, I feel ya.

I’m not really reading the classics lately, just genre mongering.

Ishiguro’s narrator in “Come Rain or Come Shine”: like poor Bertie Wooster without a Jeeves.

I love David Foster Wallace, but the guy used way too many possessives and not enough contractions. If an expectant mother’s contractions were that far apart, you wouldn’t bother driving her to the hospital.

I’d like to write my own book of jokes called Infinite Larfs.

If I opened an ice cream store, I’d call it May, June, Gelato.

If I’d a bulldog, I should name him Chuffington. I think the name rather suits him, don’t you? Eh? Halloo there, Chuffie!

After age 50: there are the can-runs and the can’t-runs.

Happy half a hundred to you, too.

Can’t complain, still do.

Please, coyotes, eat that yapping Benji dog outside my window.

Reading before bed is like seeding the clouds.

I’m-a gotta siesta, baby.