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Humor: Torment Behind the Art

Edward L. Flaim

Merry Christmas? Bah! Humbug!
The Theatre of the Absurd

In Writing Humor: Creativity and the Comic Mind, Mary Ann Rishel delves into existentialism in addressing absurd humor. The existentialist views existence as meaningless, futile and rejects the concept of an afterlife. The Biblical quotation, “Remember man, that thou art dust and to dust thou shalt return,” ends there. No afterlife, no heavenly reward or eternal torture. We are born, we live, we die. End of story.

Existentialism is a post-World War II philosophy, with authors such as Jean-Paul Sartre and Albert Camus writing books entitled Nausea, Being and Nothingness, The Plague and The Myth of Sisyphus. For those who haven’t read these books, I assure you there is not a bit of humor within their covers.

However, the mind is capable of finding humor in anything. I recall an attempted suicide pact between an 80-something-year-old man and his similarly aged wife. He was to shoot her and then himself. Unfortunately, the gun he used was older than the couple. He shot his wife in the head. Although she fell to the ground, the bullet had ricocheted off her curlers and merely stunned her. He placed the gun to his ear. The bullet lodged in his ear and both survived. Is this the ultimate failure? An inability to even voluntarily cease to exist? Or a sign that destiny should be left to an intangible creator and force? You must answer that for yourself. However, I laughed. A humorous tragedy.

Even those who ardently believe in a god, their religion, can write absurd fiction. The fiction writer lives in a world of imagination. Set aside your beliefs and assume that life is meaningless. Then sit down and write.

In this Season to be Jolly, I suffer. A psychologist diagnosed me as afflicted with SAD. Well, duh, Doc, I’m paying you two hundred bucks to tell me I’m sad? I know that, you virulent pustule. Let me give you some advice. Keep up this façade and someone will sue you. That advice just cost you three hundred. Cough up a hundred bucks, Doc.

He then explained that SAD is Seasonal Affective Disorder, caused by the shorter exposure to light in the winter months. He recommended that I purchase special light fixtures, which he happened to sell, for two grand. I kicked him in the groin and walked out.

After the state released me from jail last month, I was once again sad, depressed. I knew SAD was a fictitious disease created by psychiatrists and psychologists. Congress included this fictitious disease under the Full Employment for Quacks Bill, enacted into law in January of this year. Like multiple personality disorder, rarely diagnosed until the number of psychiatrists and psychologists exceeded the number of patients, the ever-expanding medical profession created SAD to attract even more new patients, thus enabling these underpaid wags to make their Porsche and yacht payments. SAD became a legitimate disease.

SAD? Get real! It’s the season itself. The season to be jolly is a fraud.

Nobody knows the precise date of Christ’s birth. We do know he wasn’t born on December 25th. So why pick December 25th, intentionally lie and perpetuate the lie until the lie became truth? Money. Another diabolical plot to assure that my wallet remained thin while the rich became richer.

While walking through town yesterday, I focused on the masks people wore. Many were smiling and laughing, seemingly as jolly as Scrooge’s imbecilic nephew. Others had the ordinary everyday look of the harried worker. Some folks appeared worried, anxiety-ridden and confused. A long line of stone-faced people stood outside the gun shop. Amazing. I thought I was the shop’s only customer.

I bumped into a beggar. I apologized profusely, stepped back a bit and reached for my wallet while I looked him over. Something was wrong. His clothes were rags yet he smelled like Obsession. My wallet slipped from my hands. I bent down to grab it and noticed he wore at least $600 Italian shoes. What’s going on here?

I stood up and stared at his disheveled clothing. I glanced at his eyes, adorned by Armani designer frames and what I’m certain were Varilux lenses. I needed to know.

“Sorry, sir, I honestly was trapped in a fog when I bumped into you. If you don’t mind, I’ll give you a twenty if you’ll sit down and have a cup of coffee with me. Talk a bit.”

He smiled, revealing snow white teeth and perfect alignment. He obviously once had a gifted orthodontist and presently a talented dentist.

“Sure thing, sir,”

We walked a few yards to Starbucks. I laughed when most customers disappeared upon seeing us. Hey, I thought. How to quickly get a seat anywhere? Bring a bum! Although I suspected this man was not really a bum.

“Thanks for the coffee, buddy,” he said, and began drinking his cappuccino. "Now fork over the twenty.”

I pulled out my wallet yet again and handed him a ten and two fives while asking, “What kind of bum can afford your shoes and glasses?”

He sprayed out the coffee in a fit of laughter. When his laughter died to a chuckle, he smiled and said, “What makes you think I’m a bum, buddy?”

“Well. You're out there begging and….” He interrupted before I could finish.

“Look, buddy, I was out there holding a can, looking pitiful. I never say a word. Folks walk past and throw money in, assuming I’m destitute. I don’t bother wearing a placard reading ‘Executive VP at the Marriott Corporation, earning 200 grand a year, needs more than he deserves. Fools like you just assume I’m broke. After I stand and hold out the can for four or five hours, I’ll walk to that parking lot down the road, hop in my Jag and drive home.”

We both broke into hysterical laughter. When it finally stopped, I asked, “200K a year, huh? So why do you do it?”

“I’m an amateur student of human behavior. Do you know what the average bum in this area earns per year?”

“No idea.”

“Over 30K per year. And that’s part-time. A dedicated bum can earn over 100K. I know a few who drive better cars than mine. My Marriott salary averages out to $3,850 per week. If I take a month of my vacation time during the season to be jolly, I collect 5K per week holding a can while looking pitiful. Tax free, buddy. Tax free! Not bad, huh?”

“Not at all. Not at all.”

I was suddenly overcome with nausea. I stood up, waved at the wealthy bum and left. The pedestrian traffic had increased. The mass of human bodies colliding, pushing, shoving and making liberal use of elbows, resembled bumper cars at an amusement park. Yet even what appeared to be the formation of a violent mob was filled with cries of “Merry Christmas, Ho-Ho-Ho,” and “'Tis the season to be jolly!” The line at the gun shop was longer. The crowd was overwhelming. I was pushed in so many directions, bouncing off one person to another, that I realized what the glimmering steel ball in a pinball machine felt as blind Tommy, the Pinball Wizard, racked up his score. I thought, this is madness. This is truly madness.

I thought I was thinking this. I was actually screaming it. People moved away in panic. I thought, Oh no, another holiday season spent behind bars, learning how to rape, pillage, loot, steal and kill. Suddenly jail felt preferable to this asylum. But then I noticed something that will forever stay with me.

Although many people were walking away swiftly, a few people were walking towards me. They were smiling, laughing, and I could swear the cartoon light bulb flashed over each head. The few turned into many and all began screaming, “This is madness! This is madness!”

A Howard Beale look-a-like stepped out of the movie, “Network,” and the chant changed to, “We’re mad as hell and we’re not gonna take it anymore! We’re mad as hell and we’re not going to take it anymore!”

A third crowd joined the chanters and the fleers, consisting of curious observers. Some eventually joined the fleers, some joined the chanters, while most remained observers. Most observers were applauding and singing. Several Roman candles rose skyward, destination unknown. I smiled, thinking perhaps there was something to this season to be jolly stuff.

Until the candles returned to earth and their tear gas payloads spread over the crowd. I cursed myself for considering even for a moment this planet and its victims had rhyme or reason.

I was never a Boy Scout. Therefore, I really was always prepared. I reached in my pockets to find my mini-mask. Condom? No. Beef jerky? No. Medicinal pot? No. Inflatable doll? Well, later maybe. Ah. Mini-Mask. Got it! I snapped it on and, like Snagglepuss, exited left to avoid the police line only now audible and barely visible with the gas permeating through the air. I sought refuge.

I reached Wisconsin Avenue, about to stagger across it, when the non-bum drove up in his Jag.

"Hop in, buddy! Let’s get out of here!”

I obliged and hopped into his Jag. “Nice car, “said I. “Now push the pedal to the metal and let’s get out of here!”

He did. He must have hit an incredible speed, for it seemed like only minutes before we were 20 miles from the never intended riot.

“Thank God,” I said. “I’d sell my soul to the devil to avoid further insanity.”

A contract instantly appeared before me and the bum said, “Just sign at the X.”

I glanced at the bum, now impeccably attired in black suit, black shirt and black tie.

“You mean….” I started but didn’t finish.

“You got it, bud. I’m the man. Satan Beelzebub. Legion. Or simply call me John. God knows, after ejecting me from heaven, I’ve been a john infinite times.” He laughed heartily.

“Wow!” I responded. “I knew I’d meet you one day, John, but didn’t plan on meeting this soon.”

“Better now, bud, better now. You get more prizes by voluntarily agreeing to part with your soul.”

“So you’ll prevent me from encountering anymore insanity.”

“Done. As soon as you sign the contract. I’ll throw in a Potomac mansion, fully furnished and ten million.”

“Up it to 30 mil, Cindy Crawford, a 300-year lifespan and this Jag.”

“Sorry, bud. No more insanity, 20 mil, 200 years, fully-furnished Potomac mansion and the Jag. Cindy is mine.”

I pondered this proposal for about seven seconds before responding.

“Deal.”

John pulled out the oddest pen I’ve ever seen and rammed it into one of my veins.”

“Ouch!" I screamed.

“Sorry, bud. Has to be signed in blood.”

“Right, John. Right.”

I signed the document and found myself sitting alone in the Jag on the circular driveway at my Potomac mansion. John certainly kept his word.

I now sit in the recreation room in my mansion, a room larger than a football field. I’m watching a Road Runner marathon, sipping a banana daiquiri and realize that in a hundred and forty six years I’ll be joining John in hell. I smile. An eternity in hell? Couldn’t be worse than the 54 years I’ve lived in this earthly hell. Plus I’d be amongst my friends.

Ho, ho, ho! Happy holidays! And to all a good night.
 

About the Author
Ed was born in 1950. He entered the world butt-first and has since viewed the world primarily through this vertical eye. As most of those who survived the turbulent sixties, he faced several choices: death, prison, insanity or law. He chose both law and insanity. He graduated from the University of Minnesota Law School in 1984 after touring the world's asylums.

He was a well-established and recognized practitioner when diagnosed with multiple sclerosis in 1993. He continued to actively practice law until 1998, when his physical and mental condition said, "Screw this," and he returned to Maryland. In Maryland he vegetated until he came upon WVU and attempted to write fiction.

Ed has published hundreds if not thousands of his writings. That's only because every document he has ever filed with the courts is considered published. Thus far, publishers have been kind and printed one of his 300 story submissions. He's waiting anxiously to see what will happen with number 301, hoping it might bring him wealth and fame like Stephen King. Or at the very least, a cookie.