The Worst Joke Ever!

Jokes.  I love ‘em.  Whether it’s from someone’s act or just one of those old “street jokes” we hear from a friend.  I can surely appreciate a well crafted joke.  That said, I am known to equally hate the bad ones, the poorly constructed, devoid of foundation, hole filled attempts at comedy that make you wonder how this one has survived long enough to reach you.  I certainly understand that the ridiculous is often employed when a joke is told and there is certain license allowed for such things.  Most of the time, I just move on  and hope to never hear them again, but some are so god awful that I just can’t let go. The following is one that I probably heard first when I was in second or third grade, and I thought it was funny at the time.  It’s a sports joke and features the old “insert bad baseball team here” I’m certain it’s been told millions of times using one team or another.  I now wish to pick it apart for your enjoyment as well as my own. I know it’s just a joke, but this crime can no longer go unpunished.  Here it is:

Heard over the public address at Wrigley Field: “Will the lady with the nine lost children please come pick them up.  They’re beating the Cubs eleven to nothing.”

Okay, where to start?  There is a lady who brought nine children to Wrigley Field, and she lost them.  She lost all of them!  All nine kids!  She must have reported this to someone or the PA announcer would not have known that a “lady” had lost her nine children.  Now, how much time do you think had passed before these nine kids were discovered on the field playing against the Cubs?  At least long enough for them to rack up eleven runs.  These kids got onto the field and played an undetermined period of time against the Cubs and scored eleven times before anyone noticed that this was going on?    Who let them onto the field?  Where was the team that the Cubs were supposed to be playing?    Where were the umpires?  Did they call the balls and strikes?  Did the scoreboard operator record the tallies as these children had their way with the Chicago Cubs?  Did all the kids have gloves?  Did they have bats?  Where did they get bats?  How did the crowd react to this?  Why did the Cubs engage these missing children in a game of baseball when they had another game scheduled?  Why did this lady bring nine children to a game?  How did they all get away?  All of them!  She wasn’t able to keep even one in sight?  Why did it take the PA announcer to call to her attention to the fact that these kids were on the field and beating the Cubs 11-0?  Are they all her kids?  How can a woman stupid enough to lose sight of every one of nine kids afford ten tickets to a major league baseball game?  How did she get these kids to the game?  Did the radio and TV announcers call the play by play?  Did any of them during the broadcast say, “Hey why do you suppose the Cubs are playing against nine children out there instead of the Padres?”  At one point did they have to say, “We go now to the bottom of the third.  The missing children six, the Cubs nothing.”  Did the Cubs manager have to make calls to the bullpen as these youngsters feasted on Cubs pitching?  Did anyone wonder at anytime during this curious exhibition when the actual game would start?  What would happen if one of the nine kids were to be injured?  Was there another missing child somewhere that could serve as a replacement or would these kids who have built up a healthy lead of eleven runs, have to forfeit?  How horrible for them should that happen.  I just wonder how this story could be true.  Then again, it’s just a joke and yes, the worst joke ever.

Michael Jordan's latest wager - By Skip Parker

Everyone's talking Bulls!  The most exciting team since the days of Michael Jeffrey Jordan.  With that I bring you a guest blogger, Mr. Skip Parker.

There are certain things everyone knows about Michael Jordan.

He is arguably the most gifted athlete to ever participate in professional sports.

His levels of competitiveness and confidence are unmatched, on and off the court.

And Michael Jordan LOVES to gamble.

He loves to bet.  He loves to win.  That said, His Airness can’t possibly emerge victorious from what I believe is his latest wager.  He’s gambling on his ability, not as an athlete but as a pitchman, a man of influence.

Remember early in his career when Michael found himself staring down premature male pattern baldness?  This was not going to work.  Michael Jordan need only look to his own team’s bench at teammate Granville Waiters to know that certainly, that look was not going to fly.  Michael Jordan was not about to sport the Danny DeVito, the Larry David or the Mel Cooley, much less the Larry Fine,  the Anthony Geary “I think I’ll just perm it to create the illusion of fullness” or the Donald Trump “combover” that the ladies love so much.  And don’t even think about the William Shatner.  No, Michael Jordan had to truly go where no man had gone before.  Michael Jordan had to blaze his own trail.  How about this?  Thought Jordan.  I’ll just shave it all off.  Yeah, that’s it.  I want to be bald!  I like it this way.  It’s better to have no hair.  Sure, it’s been tried before, but nobody would ever call Telly Savalas, Curly Neal, or Scatman Corothers, one who sets the standard for hipness.  

Michael made the move and lo and behold, it was chic to be hairless.  Men everywhere were busting out the razors, be they balding or not.  Michael Jordan made being bald a symbol of that which is cool.

Some twenty five years later, he’s at it again.  And this time he’s taken on a Herculean task.  I’m thinking it went down something like this.  After an uninspiring round of golf or game of poker with pals, Jordan put his skills on the line.  “If I can get people to embrace baldness, I can get them to support any fashion style, just by doing it myself.  Go ahead, name it.  Anything!  “How about hot pants for men?” thought one.  Nah, Devo hats?  No.  Too easy.  How about tank tops and back hair?  Michael scoffed.  That would not even be a challenge.  “I’ve got it!”  Said Jordan.  A Hitler mustache!  I’m so influential that I can even get people to don the Nazi cookie duster.  Within days, this will sweep the nation faster than the surfing bird, and Michael Jordan will Hail the victory as they all exclaim “Sieg  Heil!” ironically transforming air Jordan, the man who redefined baldness, to “Herr Jordan.”  Perhaps a Hogan's heroes remake is in the offing, with Jordan as Col Hogan, Scottie Pippen as Newkirk, Dennis Rodman as the always wacky "Andrew Carter, Charles Barkley as Colonel Klink, and Jerry Krause as General Burkhalter.  This could be the biggest thing since the Honeymooners starring Cedric the Entertainer!  I’ve got a Hanes commercial coming up.  I’ll launch the new look there!

To Michael’s chagrin, and perhaps our relief, Michael Jordan appears to have lost this one.   Since the Hanes ads began a few months back, the Hitler Stache has not caught fire.  Perhaps it’s symbolic.  Maybe this new breed of Bull has captured our hearts and our garnered our undivided attention.  Doubtful the Joakim Noah “bun on the top” look will become a sensation anytime soon, but if suddenly Derrek Rose showed up with wooden shoes and a pointy hat, I wouldn’t be surprised to see an entire nation “go Dutch”  

And I wouldn’t bet against it.

I’m Skip Parker, and I’m just being frank

auf wiedersehen!

From the Skp Parker Archives

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hcQ4mypyIBU&feature=relmfu

Everybody Loves a Good Hell Gig!

Everybody loves a good hell gig.  They’re not particularly enjoyable to experience but when it’s over, it’s over.  You still get paid and you end up with a great story.  Great shows with terrific crowds may be good for the ego, but an evening with flannel clad lumberjack wannabes that hate you is the stuff legendary comedy tales are truly made of.  This is one of my favorites.

Wednesday night, I arrive at the Fon Du Lac, Wisconsin Holiday Inn around 7:30.  The show is scheduled 8:00.  Looks pretty much like every other one-nighter I’ve ever done.  I make my way through the lobby to the lounge by following the “Karaoke Tonight” signs.  I check in, say hello to my fellow comedian and meet the host for tonight’s festivities.  

“No we don’t usually start ‘til about nine or so.”  Says the DJ, and by DJ, I don’t mean the guy from the local radio station who passes out Leinenkugel shirts and “Get ‘er done” beer holders to the patrons who can belch the most letters of the alphabet in proper sequence without breathing.  I mean the guy who sits in the booth and pushes the button on the CD player marked “play.”  We’ll call him “Dale”  

Dale and I exchange pleasantries.  In the course of our talk, I come to find that the real reason anybody is here is for Karaoke.  

“Every Wednesday is Karaoke night.  Only we can’t get started ‘til you guys are done.” Dale also informs me that he is, in fact, a Packer fan, as if the pit-stained yellow sweater with the #4 on an embroidered cheddar wedge background didn’t provide me with my first clue to the mystery of his football preference.  

He asks me for some credits to mention in my introduction and he jots them down in his notebook.  “Could you also mention that I have a CD available?”   

“No problem.  I’ll keep them in the booth for you.”

It’s about 9:20 and we start the show.  The sea of flannel we will call an audience is pounding down their karaoke night beer specials in anticipation of the main event.  Dale hits the stage, makes a few announcements and brings up the first comedian.  We’ll call him John.  John does a commendable job of putting his head down and plowing through while they talk among themselves.  It’s not completely horrible. He’s getting through it, though the longer he stays up, the less they listen, and the more intoxicated they become.  John senses their waning interest and launches into his closing bit, a deer-hunting piece.  

A stroke of genius!  

Hit them where they live.  

He manages to leave the stage with a smattering of applause and he lives to see another day.

Dale returns to the stage and informs the unruly bunch that Karaoke time is not here yet, but if they can last through one more guy, we can get the fun started.  He introduces me, sans notebook, and forgets my name.  I hit the stage at 10:00 and I feel the room take an ugly turn.  “Hate him!  Hate him!  Hate him!”  The vibe resonates throughout karaokeland before I’ve even uttered a word.  They are not listening, but they do take an occasional moment to blurt their nonsensical musings and sarcastically scream “NO!”  in response to my rhetorical questions while on their way to drop their karaoke slips at the booth.

I select a spot on the back wall at which to stare, and deliver the rest of my soliloquy.  I exit the stage.  We all rejoice!  To a man, they hate me.  Dale takes the microphone and wraps things up: “How about a nice hand for Chris Mootay!  Chris Mootay, everybody!   Be sure to get a copy of Chris Mootay’s CD! 

Chris Mootay?  I’ve had my name butchered before, but this was the most entertaining of all.  Dale retreats to the booth and the love fest of bad singing commences.  First up, it’s Connie, with her stirring rendition of Janis Joplin’s “Me and Bobby McGee.”   Now, it’s simple.  Get paid.  Get out.  A hotel employee finds me and says, “I’ll be right with you.”  I take this moment to head over to Dale at Karaoke Central, get my CD’s, and hit the road.  “Thanks Dale, it was fun.  I just need to grab those CD’s.  Then, horror of horrors, Dale in a fit of spontaneous ass-holery, stops the music, and cuts off Janis Joplin mid song!  

“Hey everybody, it’s your last chance to get Chris Mootay’s CD!  Get the Chris Mootay CD now!  A chorus of boos ensues with increasing volume as Janis Joplin flips me the proverbial finger.  Before they can draw their hunting rifles, Dale hits the play button, thus restoring harmony.  

Just for the sheer hell of if, I asked,  “What’s my name?” 

 “Chris Mootay” he says with conviction.  I held up one of the CD’s with my name “Mike Toomey” displayed in bold letters.  After taking a beat, to absorb this new information, Dingleberry again reaches for the microphone and yes, stops the music.  “I’m sorry everybody, it’s Chris Toomey!  Last chance for the Chris Toomey CD!”   The Boos are back, only this time with much more fervor.   Dipshit re-starts the music yet again.  I need to get out, and the only way to reach the exit is to walk past the stage, right in front of Janis where I receive yet another chorus of spastic boos.  As the first song ends, I collect my money.  Singer number two takes the stage, and as she launches into yes,  “Me and Bobby McGee” (I’m not kidding) I head for the door.

On my way out, I sold one CD.