Laughing Matters: Putting the .com in Comedy

by Ryan G. Van Cleave |  Illustrations by Darcy Kelly-Laviolette

This past February, a colleague took the three-week Stand-up Comedy Boot Camp through the Humor Institute at McCurdy’s Comedy Theatre. I supported my pal by attending the end-of-the-camp evening performance where the students each got on stage before a packed house and let ‘er rip, comically speaking, in an original three- to five-minute routine. My contribution? Drinking two-and-a-half strawberry daiquiris. Tripping on someone’s walker as I was en route to the bathroom. And laughing, as a nearby woman frowned and muttered to no one in particular, “like a better-than-thou lemur.”

Side note—I actually went to the Lemur Conservation Foundation this past December to see the holiday lemur parade (spoiler—they do NOT parade but rather just kind of mill around, NOT wearing uniforms, and NOT playing instruments). And I have to say, I didn’t see any particular lemur thinking it was fancier than the other lemurs. But then again, I’m no lemur expert, like this lady apparently believed herself to be.

Back to my McCurdy’s story—I was sorely tempted to ask that grouch if her ridiculous wrap was made out of imitation lemur fur or if it were the real McCoy, but my wife had tagged along to the McCurdy’s show and she doesn’t approve of me doing that kind of thing. I get one public off-color crack per week (at least while she’s around), and I was saving it for a to-do I was planning for the weekend at the Target on Fruitville. They were asking for it—trust me.

After the comedy night was over, my colleague suggested that I sign up for the next Stand-up Comedy Boot Camp. Not a chance. For one thing, I already have my own regular stand-up performances—I have two shows a week at Ringling College. My students call them “classes.” For another thing, I have Twitter, the bathroom wall of the Internet. The place where the mind of a ten-year-old masquerades as an adult. And yet another reason? Stand-up comedy is super hard, and I subscribe to the wisdom of Homer Simpson: “If something’s hard to do, then it’s not worth doing.”

Seriously, stand-up comedy is not my thing. My comedy works differently. Let me show you. Consider the following:

I was driving to work the other day and I saw a sign: “Lots for sale.” But there was nothing there.

So the joke you just read? While it took you maybe 5 seconds to read, it took me thirteen minutes to write. After that fancy bit about driving, I ran into a destination debate about work/school/grocery store, so I got up to fetch a root beer. Then I came back and considered working a comma in somewhere while intermittently watching an old Backstreet Boys video (“All I Have to Give”) on YouTube. And the rest? I sort of pieced it together like verbal Mahjongg while playing with my imaginary cat, Rufus. Yep, I gave him a dog’s name because I’m allergic to cats. And I don’t particularly like cats either, but I’m simply not creative enough to dream up a panda bear or platypus or something better.

As you no doubt see, my own brand of humor-making simply isn’t conducive to a live performance, I’m afraid. I prefer to wing it when it comes to the guffaw-making, and I’m admittedly slow. Lemur-slow, perhaps. Not even the comedy duo of Les McCurdy and Ken Sons could transform that kind of plodding process into a stage-worthy experience. 

Plus I’m totally phobic about microphones.

Here’s the real takeaway and the point of this month’s column: I’m inspired by how Ken and Les give back to the comedy community. I’m inspired by my colleague’s brave stab at the live humor game. To be honest, I’m inspired by the whole flippin’ shebang, including the fashion guts of the angry woman wearing that lemur wrap. 

So I’ve decided to start up my own self-help/educational enterprise for the humor impaired. (If the posts I see on Yahoo are any indication, it seems like a HUGE demographic these days.) I’m going to launch it online at www.TheGreatBigHaHa.com (don’t swipe that sweet URL—I’m still looking for the right GoDaddy coupon before I take on this kind of financial commitment). My plan is to cobble together all I know about being hilarious into a series of online modules.

For example, a module on marriage can show paid subscribers how to write a zinger like this:

My wife said I’m totally immature. I told her to get out of my fort.

And a section on one-liners might reveal how to write this baby:

When life gives you melons, you might be dyslexic.

A module on the old switcheroo technique (you’ll have to ask Les if that’s a real term or not) could show folks this ha-ha trick:

We were pretty incompatible in many ways, it seems. For example, I was a Virgo, and she didn’t like me.

But I’m realizing now that these are the only three jokes I know, so maybe this idea needs to be shoved back in the oven and cranked up to 600 degrees. Or maybe I need to hire a pair of virtual assistants to help, with at least one of them being a stand-up comedian. Though I’m reminded here of comedian Jonathan Winters, who said “I couldn’t wait for success, so I went ahead without it.” That’s encouraging in all the wrong ways.

I’ll leave you with three of my favorite Homer Simpson-isms, since his brand of humor is like Lay’s potato chips—you can’t stop after just one.

English? Who needs that? I’m never going to England.

Marge, don’t discourage the boy! Weaseling out of things is important to learn. It’s what separates us from the animals! Except the weasel.

Lisa, vampires are make believe, like elves, gremlins, and Eskimos.

That’s it for now, folks. See you next time when we explore that age-old conundrum: Do penguins have knees?

Ryan Van Cleave is the author of 20 books, and he runs the creative writing program at the Ringling College of Art and Design in Sarasota, Florida. ryangvancleave.com