Stand Up - Sit Down!

Every time I've tried to do stand up I have been told to sit down.

Maybe it's my timing. Maybe it's my delivery. Maybe it's my audience. Like, I remember telling my now ex-wife one time that "marriage is the only thing that you cannot idiot-proof. Somebody always underestimates the bigger idiot."

Then we got into this whole thing about how she has never underestimated me. Blah, blah, blah.

So, never wanting to win a good battle, I forged on. "You know, I like to eat an apple right after smoking a cigar. It tends to refresh my pallet. Which is probably why I also like to eat lobster right after sex." After a long slow beat she grudgingly said, "O.K., why?" "Well, I still have that fishy taste... but it's classier."

Having just re-read that last line, I'm pretty sure it's not my timing.

Later, after half an episode of Jeopardy, things calmed down a little and I asked her if she knew why they used to call the female sailors W.A.V.E.S. She was silent for a long time. Pretty much through the whole next commercial. Then, just when I thought she had forgotten my question, she said, "Why!" "I think it was because vaginal swabs was already taken."

That was pretty much it for that night. The next morning, as she was getting dressed for work. I was still in bed, lying on my side, making circles on the sheet with my finger. I looked up at her as she was pulling some sexy under-thing on, back lit by the morning sun streaming through the blinds. Innocently, I asked, "How do you tell if a woman over fifty is HOT?" "I dunno," she said distractedly. "How?" "She dresses in layers" I answered.

I honestly don't think it is my delivery, either.

That night, over dinner, she commented that I could be a "professional comic." "Really?" I asked hopefully. "Certainly. A genius makes the difficult look easy." I puffed out my chest preparing to say something witty when she continued. "But a professional... a professional makes the routine look difficult."

While I was brooding through Wheel of Fortune, I kept thinking of all the things I should have said. Finally I turned to her and blurted, "You know, all I've ever wanted to be was a regular guy. Ex-Lax is just a Band-Aid."

When she didn't bite on that one I kept the momentum going. "Speaking of professional... I don't know if you know it, but I considered a number of professions over the years. At one time I was convinced that I wanted to be a dentist. But then I realized I just couldn't bear to see that many women spit." She got it. I know she got it. But she never even looked up. So I went on, "Then I thought, maybe I'll be a gynecologist. But after a while, I figured that I'd just end up taking my work home with me."

All I could hear were the sound of crickets. And, I swear, a tumble weed rolled past my recliner. I couldn't understand it. It must be the audience.

Later that year, I got a hot tub for my wife. It was the best trade I ever made.

.

Of Lobsters and Slaves

It is a soon to be well known internet fact that, in the days of our forefathers, lobsters were considered to be one of the lowest forms of seafood. Not a delicacy by any stretch. Bottom feeders. Virtually garbage.

As such, lobster was routinely fed to the slaves of the period.

Which got me to thinking. Who figured it out first?

Did the poor, grizzled slaves with work calloused hands, and shoulders stooped from picking tobacco, shuffle home at the end of a long work day, their legs tired, their backs aching, into their unpainted shanties - to lobster dinners?

Did they suddenly straighten as they shrugged out of their soiled work clothes and slipped into dress slacks and velvet collared, silk smoking jackets? Was the dining table in the center of their one room shack covered with a white linen table cloth, the tapers lit and sitting snugly in their silver candelabras, lobsters steaming on the fire in the corner of the room, drawn butter bubbling in silver chaffing dishes? Did they wear lye scrubbed lobster bibs and complain that they only had one nut cracker and tiny fork with which to extricate the delicate sweet meat of the lobster's claws? Were the little ones already in bed having feasted upon their daily portions of shrimp and cocktail sauce?

We may never know but oral history would suggest that the irony was not lost upon the slaves, or at least their ancestors who got to retell this story with benefit of hindsight. As the story goes: One night after the crustaceans were sucked empty and the butter and lobster juice stained bibs were thrown carelessly on the table, Jasper sat with his feet upon a small hassock before the fire, lighting his cigar with a piece of kindling, talking between puffs, "Massa went a huntin' today... Uh, huh."

"Did he ketch anythin'?" his mate whispered, not wanting to wake the little ones.

"Yes'm. Him and that ol' dawg of his kotched them up two scrawny squirrels and a tired ol' groundhawg... Uh, huh."

"MMMM, mmmm!" the female replied, picking a stray piece of lobster meat from between her teeth, wiping her hands on her butter stained apron. "That do sounds like some mighty fine eatin'!"

"UH, huh."

.