Heard any good jokes lately?
Me either.
Verbally relating funny stories has become something of a lost art, and for a variety of reasons. One is political correctness. From big name entertainers to the really funny guy or gal at the office, joke tellers are understandably reluctant to share any quips that could be construed as offensive based on race, religion, ethnicity, age, sexuality, politics, gender, body type, hair color, place of residence, or any other factor(s) which outwardly differentiate one group of people from another. These days the last thing anyone in any profession needs is a reputation, accurate or not, for being racist, sexist, bigoted, misogynistic, insensitive, or something similarly unattractive.
In a New York Magazine article published late last year, comedian Chris Rock lamented an atmosphere that that not only discourages comedians from saying anything that might offend anyone, but actually encourages performers to take great pains to avoid ruffling feathers. He told interviewer Frank Rich, “You can’t say ”˜The black kid over there.’ No, it’s ”˜The guy with the red shoes.’ You can’t even be offensive on your way to being inoffensive!”
Then there’s technology. Interpersonal skills seem to be waning, largely because of ubiquitous, easily obtainable video screens that entertain their operators without bothering them with the inconvenience of engaging in actual face-to-face communication with fellow human beings. Half the fun of joke-telling is making people laugh, but that’s tough to do when you can’t see and/or relate to your audience.
Where I grew up ethnic jokes were comedy gold. Many of the funniest gags I heard (and repeated) poked fun at people of some particular background, but they were hilarious more for their absurdity than for the actual ethnicity of the joke’s designated butt, whether the simpleton in question was Polish, Irish, Italian or some other ethnicity. The two best wisecrackers I knew were my uncle, whose last name made his Polish heritage obvious, and his neighbor, who just as clearly had Italian antecedents. My Uncle Eddie would tell a joke about some dim-witted Italian; his friend Tony would fire right back with a story about an equally dense bonehead from Poland. Both men would laugh nearly as loudly at his own story as he did at the other; there was never any tension or anger expressed.
Decades later, even after polite society had long since deemed off-color ethnic jokes as no longer acceptable, I still chuckled on occasion when I thought of one. Then I moved to Montana, where the gags guys told were the very same ones I had heard as a kid, only now the protagonists lived in North Dakota rather than Poland or Italy. And when I spent a winter in North Carolina I heard the same wisecracks about West Virginians. Learning that the jokes of my misbegotten youth were utterly generic completely robbed them of whatever remaining ability they had to amuse.
Some jokes disappear because they don’t make sense, or just aren’t funny. When I was 17 years old some adult males in my neighborhood included me on their Sunday morning touch-football league team. My dad had died that spring, and they saw a fatherless boy who loved sports. (They also noticed I was tall, had reasonably good hands, and was a lot faster than most of the weekend warriors they played against, but I prefer believing their motives for inviting me were strictly altruistic ones.)
Each weekend I’d cram myself into the back seat of a neighbor’s car and, en route to the game, listen to adult males I looked up to talk about life. Often they told the kinds of jokes guys tell one another when the audience consists solely of other men. One morning we got caught behind someone driving about 20 miles per hour. After it was ascertained the pokey motorist obstructing us was male, the guy sitting in the front passenger seat commented, “He must be going to visit his mother-in-law!” Everyone in the car snickered, chortled or guffawed, so I did too, even though I wasn’t quite sure why his remark was supposed to be funny.
A couple of decades later I acquired my very own mother-in-law. She was (and is) one of the finest people on our planet. She’s hardworking, selfless, patient, empathetic, kind, and tireless, a role model who unfailingly puts others’ needs ahead of her own.
It’s my mother-in-law’s birthday this week, and even though certain members of my current car pool probably won’t believe it, when I drive to see her I sometimes go over the speed limit.
And that’s no joke!
— Andy Young teaches literacy and English at a local high school, and at day’s end motors back (generally at a rate of speed equal to or slightly above the posted limit) to a home he shares with five others, including his mother-in-law.
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