Comedy Writing’s Silent Killer

In my continuing attempts to weasel my way into the groups that write the funny, I’ve observed a potentially deadly problem: brain vomiting. It seems when the group is really in sync, really churning out some comedy gold, a brain vomit can abruptly break down the groove and destroy any hope of success.

I’ll show you what I mean…

Okay, say I want to start a column about being torn down the middle on issues affecting my life. So, I’m torn… on issues… torn… Natalie Imbruglia (What was Prince thinking?)… Rip Torn. Remember Defending Your Life? God he was great in that. Revitalized his career, I think. Best part in the movie: “The Hall of Past Lives”. Meryl Streep is saving people as a fireman and Albert Brooks is lunch for a charging tiger. Comedy Gold! Remember the time the mountain lion was in the school ventilation and Groundskeeper Willy ran to the cafeteria lady and says, “Have yoo any grease?” And she says: “Yes. Yes I do.” Then Willy yells, “Then gllllease me oop, woman!”…. Ha!

Wait…what was I going to write about? Oh God… Get the nurse. I just brain vomited.

Notice how my simulated cranial episode ended with a Simpsons reference. This is the most severe of brain vomits. If you’re spewing The Simpsons, you can bet whatever was being discussed, no matter how brilliant, is gone. Let’s say you’re writing with some pals and everyone is in that magic groove, the comedy gold rush, as it were. Guys are effortlessly throwing out inspired genius left and right. Suddenly, without warning or provocation, it happens: An obscure line from The Simpsons. At first, it seems like nothing more than an innocent attempt at a break in an intense think tank session. But then comes a retort, a la Mr. Burns… And a scratchy-throated line from Moe. And finally, the piece de resistance: Homer, from the pot episode, barking his surprise at the existence of his own kitchen. Before you know it, the room has devolved into a college dorm at 3pm on a Friday. May as well spark up some herb and order some ‘za boys, workday’s over. After the several minutes of tear-jerking laughter subside, comes the telling phrase of comedy lost: “What were we talking about?” Things decline even further when you realize no one wrote anything down before the sickness took control. Another brilliant sitcom, short story, or Lifetime movie falls victim to a group brain vomit.

Few shows have the ill effect The Simpsons have on a group of comedy writers. Sure, there are the sniffles and coughs from movies or TV shows of the day. I’ve heard the South Park sneezes, Family Guy hacking and of course, there’s always the movie expectorant... Who can forget Fat Bastard and all those mangled attempts at a Scottish accent, followed by Dr. Evil’s pinky to the lips? These, however, are only symptoms that, 9 times out of 10, deteriorate into the full on brain vomit of Simpsons episodes. It’s a near guarantee. It’s like… It’s like Baseball. The one constant throughout the years, Ray, has always been baseball. It’s been erased and re written like… uh, (ahem) sorry. I have a bit of a cough.

In conclusion, let’s review some of the ways to stop a brain vomit before it starts…

1. Stop watching TV and movies. Lock yourself in a closet with a copy of Cat Fancy and Tang. Your comedy writing may become obscure and nearly suicidal, but at least you’ll have something written down.


2. Kill all your friends. You’ll probably go to prison, where you’ll be too busy protecting
   the ol’ cornhole to think about funny.


3. Kill yourself. You’ll go to Hell where the only television is Cop Rock and Oprah. The only movie playing is Hocus Pocus. Your brain will rot and leak out your ears within 5 minutes.

If you’ve already tried these things and are still experiencing brain vomiting, there is still hope:

1. Get a friend in the group to write down all your ideas before you experience an episode.


2. If you recognize the symptoms occurring in a friend, try and throw out a few JAG or Queer Eye references. If the situation seems particularly dire, stand up and yell, “Did anyone seeDesperate Housewives last night? I am so pissed at Brie…”


3. Stay off the sauce and go to bed at 8pm each night. Studies have found these two things directly contribute to severe cases of chronic brain vomiting.

Be well, everyone. And… Be careful out there… Oog, I don’t feel so good.

I don't like you or your banana bread

Three years ago, a bank miraculously decided to lend us enough money to buy a house. After several days of yelling “Suckers!” each time we drove by the lender’s offices, it was time to settle into our new home. There were boxes to unpack, furniture to acquire from large item trash day and layers of pink and pea green paint to apply.

One day, while peering through one of our drafty windows, I noticed something odd. There were other houses next to, and across from, our own. People came and went from these places, several times each day. I beckoned my wife to the drafty window. She looked, and in a word, explained it all…

“Neighbors.”

Neighbors. We had neighbors. People, living within hundreds of feet of our home. Doing what ever it is other people do. Where do they go all day? Who do they know? Why do we suddenly care so much? We stood in the drafty window for an hour. Watching. Wondering.

On June 12th, 2002, at 11:45am, we had first contact. I was casually “day-drinking” on the front porch when a “Hello” came from the driveway below. A male and female looked up at me. The female held a large tinfoil block. The male stood with a goofy grin and ears not unlike a Mad Magazine cover. Beside them, two circus midgets squirmed with their fingers up their noses. I was later told that these were children and not carnival freaks, a claim that I dispute to this day. “We’re the Blahblahs, from across the street”, the male stranger said. (Obviously, their name isn’t the Blahblahs. I just figured I’d play it safe on the off chance they’ve discovered the Internet). “I baked you a banana bread”, the female said. Before I could offer my no thanks, one of the midgets asked, “Can I pet yowr dawg?” “Uh sure...” I said. The carny then reached through the deck railing and deposited his nose candy all over my huskie’s head. I felt uncomfortable and a bit violated. I wasn’t ready for this much awkward conversation. I needed them away. “I’d love to have you in but I work at home,” I said, holding up my half-enpty bottle of High Life, “and I’m right in the middle of a project.” They all gave me a blank stare and the male said, “Okay… uh, well, welcome to the neighborhood.” And with that, the neighbors departed, wandering back to their home, possibly offended, hopefully a little scared.

There would be other neighborly visits, but none seemed as intriguing as the Blahblahs. The personal contact was quite unnerving — and two days of banana bread-induced diarrhea felt a tad insulting — but watching their follies through the drafty windows has become a daily obsession.

As it turns out, Mr. Blahblah is a part-time minister and religious youth camp director. On Mondays, the youth gather on the Blahblah’s front lawn and act out scenes from the bible. There’s something disturbing about teenagers in warm-up pants and crooked ball caps changing water into wine. Sometimes, to provoke a reaction, I’ll display our novelty leg lamp, a la A Christmas Story, in the front window. It’s always interesting to see how fast the wholesome scatter at the sight of electric sex.

One can’t-miss event is always the mowing of the lawn. These people are probably no older than 30, but the guy still gets teens in his youth group to do his yard work. He actually did mow once himself, but he took off his shirt to reveal King Kong-esque back hair and a stomach that looked like he swallowed a small pet, so I suppose I’m grateful for his laziness in this regard. The Minister Blahblah really seems to have a big streak of sloth running through him. Many winter mornings, I watch as he stands with a cup of coffee, in his pajamas, not helping his wife scrape off the car, shovel the walk or get the two midgets in the car for carny school.

The most disturbing snub to chivalry came when his, (or her) parents were visiting one winter weekend. We had gotten around 18 inches of heavy wet snow on Friday night. Saturday morning, I looked across the street to find, to my horror, THE PARENTS SHOVELING THE DRIVEWAY. Blahblah stood by the door, roadrunner coffee mug in hand and a goofy grin on his face. It’s bad luck just to see something like that. One time, the gentleman next-door kindly snow blowed Blahblah’s driveway. I went over and inquired as to why he would contribute to the Minister’s laziness. He said he does it for the two children. “If anything ever happened and the kids needed to go to the hospital, they’d never get out of the driveway.” I quickly rebutted, “But they’re not children, I think they’re circus midgets…They’re heads are gigantic.” He let out a nervous chuckle and has since kept a healthy distance from me, and my house.

To round out the neighborly nuttiness, there’s this one other little instance of nonsensical weirdness: One day, Mr. Blahblah, dressed in a skidoo suit and a fleece jester hat that reached the small of his back, was attempting to shovel the drive. (Surprising, given his past behavior.) After three scoops of snow, he dropped the shovel and just stopped. He went over to his 1992 Saturn and opened the trunk, turned and looked up at the sky and with a whimsical grin on his face, wandered down to the end of the street…and into the woods. All I could figure was, the mothership had finally found him. It was time to go.

Mr. Blahblah did finally return three hours later. However, he didn’t close the trunk and left his shovel in the road. Two days later, his wife closed the trunk and roped the gentleman next door into jumping the drained battery.

And so it goes with the Blahblahs, until they decide to sell the house and hit the carnival circuit with the midgets.

Things I’d like to be...And get paid handsomely for

After serious contemplation, coupled with several years of having checking and credit accounts “charged off,” I’m submitting a list of careers in which I believe I’d excel, given the proper monetary motivation:


Christopher Walken
I’d like to be the first to throw my hat in the ring. (I saw in the grocery checkout line that aliens have abducted the eccentric actor, in exchange for a clean burning fossil fuel). Plus, I do a mean impression of the guy… In my car… Alone… with the radio turned up. Just take my word for it… It’s money.

Someone Who Can Name Any Voice, On Any Radio or TV Ad
I have an uncanny knack for recognizing people’s voices. I may not always know the name, but I can do the “He was the guy who killed all those kittens… You know, in that Lifetime movie…” Such talent deserves compensation… Preferably, tens and twenties.

The Guy Who Determines “The New Black”
Somewhere, in an office closet, sits a small, meager man with a limp and one purpose: Determine a color replacement for black, in the world of fashion. With the beginning of each new fashion season, he steps out into a room full of eager designers, holds up an index card, printed with one word. A wave of excitement and relief fills the room: “ Blue! It’s blue, people!” Followed by the kudos and compensation… “Beautifully done once again, sir… Here’s your enormous paycheck. Take a nap. We’ll see you next spring.”

I wish to be this man.

A Charcoal Briquette
I never could get it right in my method acting class. I always sizzle when I should smolder.

An Idiot
Idiots have it made. Paid idiots live in a candy-covered, self- proclaimed utopia, relishing their well-deserved American arrogance and pride of passive responsibility.

Money in the bank, plus I can save the use of my brain for science.

Cartoonist/Comedy Writer
Right. Moving on… Without the sarcasm, people!

Nothing
Based on how hard #5 has proved to achieve, I believe I can safely assume it's every man’s dream to collect a lofty salary for doing absolutely nothing with, for, or about anyone or anything.

A Rock Star
Badass clothes and expensive hotel rooms, stocked with free, endless alcohol. Never being held accountable for your irresponsible behavior, with hot chicks crawling over you, just for learning three lousy power cords.

Yes, please.

A Brewmaster
If you were the one making the beer, logic would dictate you get to drink the beer. A lot and, in all probability, for free.

Sign me up, cowboy!

A Celebrity Chef
I make a mean sandwich, or as I’ve renamed it for marketing purposes, The Samwich™. My lack of any culinary education should prove to be a non-issue, as I produce several network programs, books and magazines, based on a lazy rip-off retooling of an American lunch classic.

An Idea Man
The basic concept: I sit around all day in my Superman Underoos™, collecting payment for any and all ideas. “ So, it’s called a Samwich™? Marvelous! Please accept this tidy sum for your troubles.”

A Paid Writer for DrinkatWork.com
To quote a very reliable DAW source: “ Keep dreamin’, douchebag.”


Yours in nonsensical poverty,

C.