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.
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