Sweet Sevens: Getting Jokes 1

Seven is proving to be a great age. He can read and amuse himself. While still energetic, my son is more or less governed by his brain. The deathwish that possesses small children to stick their tongues in electric sockets, drink lye, and try to climb into the toilet has begun to dissipate. He still can be stubborn. He can still be madly emotional, but while the causes are often trivial, they are at least rational. The other day he was disconsolate, having lost a burping contest during recess. His mother, while initially nurturing, walked away when she learned the cause. As a good father I took him aside, talked to him gently, and listened to him burp.

“Son,” I told him, “You are burping from the throat. No resonance and you wear out your larynx. Bring the air down deep into your diaphragm. You can sound out whole words.”

But, best of all, he can get fairly sophisticated humor and even make clever jokes. As a one-time comic wannabe, this is heaven. For example, in the wake of the inauguration he asked me about the vice president. I reiterated McCain’s joke that the vice president’s main job is to call the president and see if he is still alive. I added that the Veep goes to meetings and events when the President doesn’t want to. I began riffing, like the second coming of Bob Newhart, holding my hand with an extended thumb and pinky like a phone:

”Hey, Vice President, this is the President. Yes, yes, I’m happy to be talking to you too. So listen, I have a really important job for you. No, it isn’t another toxic cleanup site in New Jersey. This has international implications. The President of Zambeziland died and I need you to go give a speech at the funeral in Africa. It should be a three-day traditional ceremony. You’ll need to stay for the whole thing – if we offend them they might cut off vanilla exports and we need the vanilla vote. Wear a nice dark heavy suit. What’s the weather like? Well it’s near the equator, probably no more than a 120 at noon.”

[Hang up pretend phone.]

You know who has it worse then the Vice President? Lieutenant Governors, they are like Vice Presidents – but just for states. They really have nothing to do.

[Break out pretend phone.]

“Hi Governor, it’s me… you know, your Lt. Governor? How are you feeling today, good? Not under the weather or anything? Be careful, you know, going up and down stairs – most accidents happen around the house…

What’s that, you are giving a speech out of state this afternoon? Really, so you’ll be out of state for a couple of hours? Sure, knock’em dead Governor!”

[Hang up pretend phone.]

“I’ll be governor for three hours! What will I do first? Change the state reptile? I’ll build a stadium with my name on it. I’ll start a new education program. I know, I’ll declare a state of emergency quarantine and seal the borders. Then, I’ll be governor FOREVER! And then, I can sponsor midnight basketball”

My son dies with this stuff and for some strange reason, referring to midnight basketball, absolutely cracks my kids up. My son does the bit pretty well, and even my daughter tries to imitate it. Her timing and attitude were pretty good, but most of the words didn’t come out right (it was like listening to a comedian performing in Hungarian.) But her big punchline was, “And I’ll make midnight sports!”

Why this old political football from the budget battles of the 1990s (a decade before my kids were born) is a mystery to me. I don’t know why I mentioned it or why it works on this audience. It is a weird comedy synergy – but, as Woody Allen counsels, “If it bends it’ss comedy, if it breaks…”

Campaign Season for GoofBoy

GoofBoy is running to be president of his USY (United Synagogue Youth) chapter and I had some helpful advice for him.

I don't know much about youth groups. I didn't belong to one when I was a teenager because I didn't like the other youth much (the feeling was mutual). But I do know a bit about politics. GoofBoy was running against his best friend, CarpoolBuddy. Since I've known this kid since he was born, I thought I might be able to identify some critical weaknesses. So I wrote him a campaign strategy memo.

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Overall Campaign Theme: Promise to make USY great again. Emphasize that the leadership is stupid but that you are smart. Don't offer any specifics beyond that except that it's gonna be huuuuge!

Attack Strategies:

1. Insiders: CarpoolBuddy's parents met at USY, he was practically born into it. He is a USY insider, part of the USY elite. You are an outsider who isn't beholden to the big USY power brokers and can make big changes,

2. Cruz him! CarpoolBuddy's father is Canadian (a fact that plays a larger role in my life than his). Raise questions about his eligibility for the highest office. It doesn't matter if the charge is legitimate or not, it will raise questions and he'll spend so much energy defending himself that it will distract his campaign.

Dirty Tricks:

Try to get inside his camp for intelligence. Get CarpoolGal to hack into her brother's laptop and leak his  speech to you. Also lets find out what his delegate strategy is!

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GoofBoy, of course, rejected my suggestions and said if he lost he could just be Vice President and get his term as President next year. Of course if GoofBoy is Vice President then I am full of suggestions!

Saturday Afternoons on Mars

My son long played these terrific games within games. But GoofGirl didn’t. I wasn’t worried. She is a super-smart, funny, clever girl who draws elaborate pictures and tells funny stories. She may in fact be playing very creative games – but saving it for her friends.

Still, I was pleasantly surprised on a recent Saturday afternoon when GoofGirl told me to pretend I was Barack Obama. We try to keep the Jewish Sabbath which restricts possible activities tremendously – no TV, computers, or driving anywhere – so summer Saturdays get looooong and Mama Goof was taking a well-deserved and much needed nap, so anything to kill some time and buy her some peace.

She wanted me to pretend to be the President, visit her room and bring my family (not my real family, but Sasha and Malia).

My son got into the act as my Secret Service agent. He loaded up his Nerf pistols and put on his Nerf vest, like a bulletproof vest.

(Quick digression, I remember some pretty weak Nerf weapons as a kid that broke, jammed and had no range – his are really cool, have real punch and are tons of fun. We’ve spent hours chasing each other around the house with them. I confess, that just as I enjoyed throwing Nerf balls at his head when he was two, I really like plugging him with Nerf darts execution style.)

We went up to my daughter’s room, he knocked on the door and she told us to come in. My son did a quick sweep looking for assassins and announced in his deep serious voice: “Ladies and gentleman: the President of the United States.”

My daughter and son stood and I entered the room. I tried to channel SNL’s Fred Armison imitating Barack Obama as I introduced the first family and told my daughter what a lovely home she had. My daughter played with the imaginary first daughters while my son looked around nervously and tapped his pretend earpiece.

Then my daughter dismissed the first family and told me to stay (I didn’t want to be all pedantic and tell her that one did not tell presidents what to do.) She ran downstairs grabbed some newspaper, pointed to an article and told me I had to read it. (She can’t read yet.)

“I am very busy being the President – can you tell me what it says,” I asked.

“Yes, the person who wrote this article is a robber. He steals things, but he is also a writer and he writes that you are the robber and people believe him. You need to stop him,” she explained earnestly – she seems to think rather highly of the capabilities of writers.

“Well, what do you suggest we do about this?” I asked, still trying to sound presidential.

“We need to stop him because he is making people think you are a robber.”

“How should we do this, can we take pictures of him stealing things?” I proposed.

“I could shoot him!” my son/bodyguard interjected.

“We can’t take pictures of him – he’s too sneaky,” my daughter said.

“Well, what if we tell him there is something extra valuable at the museum. We know he’ll try to steal it and then we can catch him.”

The little Goofs liked this plan. So I sent my son/bodyguard to inform my staff to issue a press release.

The little Goofs escorted me to the museum (downstairs in our living room) and prepared to catch the robbers.

Then it gets weird
At this point, since I was still the President, I couldn’t help fight the robbers because Presidents can’t get hurt (my kids know that vice presidents are not to be trusted). So I sat in the corner and may have fallen asleep while my kids karate-chopped imaginary thieves.

I awoke with a start.

“The truth is, I’m an alien,” I heard my daughter explain.

“Me too, we are both aliens,” GoofBoy added.

“Are we still in the same game, am I still President?” I asked.

“Yes Mr. President, and you need to come with us to Mars,” GoofGirl ordered.

“OK. What do you eat on Mars?”

“Cookies, pizza, whatever you like – just like on earth, but better.”

“What do you do for fun on Mars?”

“Well,” Martian GoofGirl began, “We have swimming pools, and playgrounds, and Hello Kitty.”

“Allright, let’s go!”

My son piloted the spaceship and my daughter held my hand so I wouldn’t get scared on the long spaceship ride. We got to Mars, which looked a great deal like our kitchen. Sure enough, we found cookies.

“Congratulations, you are the first earthperson to visit Mars,” GoofGirl announced.

“Wow, but you said you had Hello Kitty and that’s from earth?” I queried.

“No, Hello Kitty is from Mars, we send it to earth,” my daughter explained patiently.

That seems plausible.

My wife came downstairs, yawning and stretching.

“Did you sleep well,” I asked.

“Okay,” Mama Goof replied.

“Well, I’m wiped. While you were out, I had to fight robbers and go to Mars.”

In our house, this is not unusual.

Visit to Philly 2: The Scratch of History

The little Goofs faced the trip to Philly with me with no small amount of trepidation. They know that when faced with historic sites I go into a bit of a frenzy and that my legendary sleep requirements disappear as I seek to vacuum up every possible instant of the past.

In facing the Independence National Historical Park, I told the little Goofs that we would see the Liberty Bell and Independence Hall and then we would see.  The little Goofs, dreaming of the hotel pool, acquiesced.

It was cold and blustery, but lines were short and much of the historic district is within a few blocks.  So complaints were minimal.  The liked seeing the Liberty Bell, one of the great icons of our nation and maybe they sort of kind of got the import of what happened at Independence Hall.  I also dragged them into the old Second Bank of the United States (now a National Portrait Gallery) which made me immensely happy and sated some of my obsession with the Age of Jackson.  When the Ranger asked the little Goofs some historical questions, they were remarkably knowledgeable about Vice Presidents, less so about the Presidents.  In discussing John Adams, after GoofGirl determined he didn't make beer, she remarked, "Wasn't he a Vice President?"

The Junior Ranger program is pretty neat for kids GoofGirl's age.  By asking about specific details, it helps kids pay attention to what they are seeing and hearing.  Another plus to the Independence National Historic Park is that it is a bunch of bite-size pieces.  Each building (and there are dozens) is not over-whelming on its own.  So a strategic parent picks and chooses a few, and avoids overwhelming their children.

Naturally, with all of the historic wonders in Philadelphia, the little Goofs were immensely taken with the extendable back scratchers that look like eagle claws.  Normally I reject these demands.  But the little Goofs then started scratching my back with them and well...

I may go months without having my back scratched, but once the process is initiated, it needs to be seen through with the entire layer of skin sloughed off.  So I had to give in.

"No, one for each of us!" This was so they could carry the back-scratchers around and duel with them.

I agreed after extracting an agreement to visit an additional site besides the previously agreed upon Liberty Bell and Independence Hall.

I'm glad I did.

Here Comes Franklin
Also, because Franklin Court (the visit they conceded) was very cool.  The home of the future site of the Benjamin Franklin Museum, it includes the archaeological dig at a home built and rented out by Franklin and Franklin's print shop.

The dig at the home owned by Franklin revealed a wealth of artifacts that gave insight into life in the late 1700s, including toiletries - that caught GoofGirl's attention.

In the print shop we learned how a teen-aged Ben Franklin was an apprentice printer, so he worked long hours in the print shop.  Eighteenth century printing presses involved people physically pressing the paper onto the type - it was a job requiring strength and skill.

"Was he paid?" GoofGirl wanted to know.

"No," the Ranger explained, "He was given room and board and the opportunity to learn a skill."

"It would have been better if he had been paid!" GoofGirl declared.

I wonder if the 18th century maybe had a few things to recommend it.

We are still discussing what to do tomorrow.  There is plenty more to see at the Independence National Historic Site and we could always go back to the Franklin Institute.  But Philly has a plethora of buildings that have that "abandoned asylum" look, one we passed was re-purposes as a childcare center.  It would be neat to check one out and the opportunity exists: Eastern State Penitentiary (America's Most Historic Prison) is open for tours.  Looks interesting, plus on returning to school after break the little Goofs could report that over winter break, "Daddy took us to prison!"

Milestones: Father Goof's Birthday Thoughts

Father Goof just suffered through a birthday last week. It was a tough one as I have officially left my mid-thirties and entered my late ones. Then it is on to forty and middle-age. (Although I hear 50 is the new 40, I also hear 90 is the new 80.)

To cheer myself up I thought about what I've really achieved in my short (but, in the opinion of many, too long) time on this mortal coil. Two achievements stand out.

When you go to a supermarket and there is a sign by the produce scales that reads, "This scale is for produce ONLY!"

I did that. When he was an infant I would take my son to the supermarket and weigh him. Then for "fun" I would calculate how much he would cost if he were cucumbers ($10.36), tomatoes ($15.11), or shitaake mushrooms ($77.43).*

Now I know what you are thinking (assuming it isn't: those are great prices on cucumbers), "Why?"

I can't say I have an answer - although it was an excuse to get out of the house and take a walk and while I was there I also bought cookies. Anyway, I was firmly told to cease and desist. It probably didn't help that we played it like a little gameshow and I would try to involve other customers (I used a broccoli tree as a microphone.)

I think if it hadn't been for the gameshow bit maybe they wouldn't have cracked down so hard and other people could have used the scales quietly to weigh their children. I notice these signs at almost every super-market. So, sorry I ruined this for everyone, but now I can take my son to supermarkets, point to the sign and proudly tell him we did that together.

My other big accomplishment is more positive. When you go to a movie theater the doorman will dutifully inform you that "The Concession stand is straight ahead."

I invented that - sort of. In college I worked at the Loews Theater at Copley Place in Boston. Most of the guys wanted to be ushers because you could linger in movie theaters, sneak snacks of popcorn and soda, get high in the bathroom, and hide if any actual work was needed. Good points, but I wanted to help people. So I would volunteer to be doorman. When people came up, in addition to telling them where their movie was, I would announce, "The recommended candy for your movie is..."

And if pressed I usually had some rationale. And people would do it. I would suggest Toblerone as the recommended candy for "Look Who's Talking Too" (I believe I told them the nougat would counter-act the grating impact of Roseanne Barr's voice coming out of a baby) and people who had never tried anything more sophisticated than Goobers would suddenly become fans of more cosmopolitan Eurocandy.

I had an impact. I got people to try new things. By telling the customers there was a candy choice that would make their specific movie choice better - I made their movie theater experience that much better. I was more than doorman - I was a sugar sommelier.

One day then Vice President of Loews, Harry Goldwater (and yes we did follow him around muttering "...extremism in the defense of liberty is no vice! ...moderation in the pursuit of justice is no virtue."

He thought it was a great idea. But of course the squares at corporate got hold of it and turned my creative, empowering idea into a bland reminder that there were calories to be consumed up ahead.

Still - I started it. Some small comfort as I begin my slide down the slippery slope...



* While writing this I called up to my wife, "Honey, what is the funniest vegetable?"

"I don't know," she yelled back, "Cauliflower? Arugala maybe?"

"Thanks, do you want to know what I'm doing?"

"No, not one bit." So you can see why I need to cherish what achievements I have, however modest.

A Fishy Tale Part III: The Stunning Conclusion

The Little Goofs asked me to write them funny letters at camp. So I wrote them a story, part I is here and part II is here. The exciting conclusion follows!

4.

We froze in horror. The first eater on the other team was a giant dinosaur. It looked like a T-Rex, until I realized. It was Godzilla! How was I going to defeat Godzilla in a sushi-eating contest. Then it got even scarier. Behind Godzilla, I don’t know how to say this...

Hello Kitty is real and terrifying. It is an enormous, ferocious-looking cat - the size of a row house! How could we ever eat more fish than a giant cat! And behind them, grinning evilly was North Korean dictator Kim Jong-un.

A referee in samurai garb came out and explained the rules in Japanese. Old Man Mannesushi translated for us. We did not have to eat what was in front of us, they would bring us any kind of sushi we wanted. But it absolutely must not be cooked. Any sort of food preparation would result in the eater’s expulsion. If an eater were expelled whatever he ate would be disqualified, but the team could substitute other eaters. Ultimately the two man team that ate the most sushi by a complex formula of weight and volume would win. One person had to be eating at all time. The other could rest. But if no one on the team was eating, the team was finished.

An ancient gong sounded and the contest was on.

Godzilla began tearing into the table of food, eating pounds at a time. The only thing slowing him down was his tiny T-Rex arms. Pop offered to go first, but I waved him off. Mr. Mannesushi reminded us, speed did not matter then he said, “I believe you Americans have a saying? Think outside the box?” He pointed to Godzilla and said, “You must now eat outside the box.”

I remembered watching Godzilla movies and cartoons and had an idea.

“Hey lizard brain, eat up! Get fat, we’re gonna make a lot of shoes out of you!”

Godzilla kept eating, but his eyes flickered over to me. I flipped him the bird.

“You think you’re gonna win - you can’t even beat mothra!”

He stopped eating for a second and looked directly at me.

“Sharktopus could KICK YOUR ASS!” I shouted and jumped under the table.

I felt a scorching heat all around me and a terrible sound like a giant piece of chalk on a blackboard the size of a mountain filled the room.

A huge gong sounded. Pop looked under the table and told me to come.

Godzilla had lost his temper and fired his eye-lasers at me. I had gone under the table but it had cooked some of the sushi.

Godzilla was disqualified!

But Hello Kitty moved into his place. Her meow was like thunder and drooled horrible slime down her enormous fangs. In one swipe of her paw he ate a ten pound tub of eel. I felt a hand on my shoulder, Pop was tapping me out and going in.

5.

“What are you going to do, I asked?”

Pop just smiled, pulled out his phone and walked up to Hello Kitty. The enormous feline monster looked at Pop’s phone. She bent closer, her eyes were suddenly less fierce, rather confused. She looked for a moment more, then her fangs retracted. The horrible, hungry expression on her face changed and she became the Hello Kitty we all know and love. And then, she just walked away. Pop turned his phone around and I saw it was a picture of GoofGirl cuddled up with her Hello Kitty toy (the one Bubbe bought).

Kim Jong-un grinned, “You have tricks and I have tricks. But now let the contest truly begin.” 

A pair of enormous sumo wrestlers stepped forward. One sat down at the table opposite Pop and began to eat. Pop calmly signaled and an octopus was placed on his head, like a vice president (did you really think I would write this whole thing without mentioning vice presidents?) The entire crowd, which had been silent till now, gasped. Pop began to work the octopus into his mouth.

They both ate slowly and methodically. The first sumo wrestler tapped out, but Pop kept eating. He finished the octopus and I tapped in. I took a deep breath, remembered what the snow monkey told me and I WAS the ocean. The fish returned to me. Tuna, salmon, mackerel, yellow-tail, red snapper, and my beloved Patagonian tooth fish all swam within me. I can’t tell you how long I ate. I dimly noticed the second sumo wrestler tapped out and the first one came back in. I kept eating. I noticed two men carry off a fifty gallon drum of soy sauce and bring a fresh one.

And then I was full. I could eat no more. I was sweating salmon oil. I looked over to Pop. He tapped my shoulder. He looked up to the sky and let out a mighty EE-EE-EE-EE like a dolphin. Then he leapt, like a playful porpoise, flying through the air and into the table full of fish. It was as though he was swimming through the fish, devouring them.

The sumo wrestler eating turned a little green, the other one tapped in. He started eating, but after a few minutes doubled over clutching his stomach. Pop kept swimming through the sushi.

The great gong sounded. The match was over. We had won. Kim Jong-Un scowled, "You have won today, but tomorrow will be mine."

Then, he switched on his heli-pack and flew away.

I asked Pop about the dolphin noises. He turned to me and said, “The snow monkey told me to do it. But it was easy to become a dolphin when you are a Mannes-tee!"

Then all of the Mannesushis (hundreds) in the arena stood and sang the Manatee Song.

If you tell a kid a fart joke...

If you tell a kid a fart joke, he'll start to laugh. He'll laugh so hard that he toots. Then, that reminds him of what made him laugh in the first place and it makes him laugh all over again, until he toots, which makes will make him laugh...

I've discovered the secret to perpetual motion. Nothing kills with an audience of five year olds like fart jokes. Nothing.

Harry Truman's Vice President, Alben Barkley once said that the best audience is, intelligence, well-educated, and a little drunk."

For five year olds, the key is gassy. If that's your crowd, ply them with beans.