The Comedian's
Notebook XII
by M. V.
Montgomery
I can no longer eat all I can eat.
You know you’re a redneck when
you think “dressing for dinner” means
putting on an old shirt in case you might spill
on the one you’re wearing.
Don’t know if I could have
escaped from Alcatraz, but I am bustin’
outta this shirt.
According to a news commentary today,
the U.S. should be wary of negotiating with
President Kim Jong-un of North Korea because in
his region of the world he is known as a “bad
actor.” Well! I think that’s kind of a
snobbish reason for refusing to talk to someone.
In the housing development next to
mine, most of the homeowners have a front door
sign with their last initial monogrammed on it.
It’s kind of cutesy, I suppose, but
sometimes when I pass by I feel kind of sorry for
the D and F families, ‘cause it’s like
their homes got the low grades.
Before going to bed, I’d like
to try one of those new SOM drinks that are
advertised to help you get to sleep — but at
the same time, I worry that it will make you get
up to pee. How does anyone win that one?
Life can be confusing. You feel like
one of those BBC mystery actors who circulate on
different shows each week from murderer to
suspect to victim — so, chaps, what are we
on for today?
Would like to see Larry David do
something about news reporters who begin their
reports with the words “Sure” or “Yeah,”
as though we have just asked them, as a special
favor, to inform us.
While we’re at it, I think I
would also sic Larry on people who say, “Got
it!” automatically when you are trying to
discuss an idea with them, even before you’ve
explained it.
TV Mystery: Why do police officers
always have to shove the perps’ heads down
when they are putting them into the back of a
squad car? Give a dude some space, man.
Guns don’t kill people, bullets
do.
Impatient man, can’t wash his
hands.
Which is better—to “be
something” or to be “something else”?
When I tell others I plan to retire,
they automatically reply, “Oh, what are you
going to do?”
As if putting myself onto another
schedule immediately is a big concern.
Without coffee, I spend days in a
state of suspended animation, only to wake up
fully at night.
It’s better to eat a melon with
seeds to slow you down. It’s also the
closest I’ll ever come to dining like Thich
Nhat Hanh and giving my full attention to what I’m
chewing.
As men age, our spines start to
recline like lounge chairs, bending back to
support our guts one interlocking vertebra at a
time.
The pollen count is so high now, all
you have to do to get your daily requirement of
fiber is to breathe with your mouth open.
Musicians who have sacrificed their
hands to playing the cymbals ought to give
themselves a well-deserved round of applause.
Executives will always look at you
funny if you wear a short-sleeve shirt to work,
but for me it’s a free exercise of my right
to bare arms.
Sophisticated words that you can use
to take the edge off, that sound remotely like
swearing: “laminate!” “succor!”
“granddam!”
What to wish a Jewish bodybuilder
before a competition: “Muscle tone!”
Surrealist-pun humor: When is a tire
not a tire? When you don’t wear it.
You picked a fine time to leave me,
loose wheel.
Thriller title: The Baptist
Drownings.
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