Humor: Torment Behind the Art

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Humor: Torment Behind the Art

Edward L. Flaim

Using Humor to Inform

In a previous column, we discussed non-fiction humor. Many factual events we experience during life are in themselves humorous. Indeed, life’s experiences often outwit the wittiest of humorists.

But can humor be an instrument to convey knowledge? A “hook” to draw the reader into a subject he might otherwise ignore? A preface that attracts the reader to a subject in which she has no interest? Of course it can.

How often have we read reprints in Reader’s Digest on subjects such as the amazing resiliency of the potato bug, pit bulls can be friendly if they don’t kill you first and making potholders for fun and profit? An ingenious writer can suck us into anything, no matter how obscure and worthless the subject appears to be.

However, the primary question I ask myself is whether I can write informative humor. I almost garnered the courage to try sky diving. Perhaps I’ll get further attempting to write informative humor.

No Lions, No Tigers, But Bears? Oh My!
The following story is true. I have not changed names to protect the ignorant. I have altered the language of various conversations so those needing this information the most will have access to it. The fact that writing such language might lead to my lynching played no part in this decision. With hindsight extending 33 years, this story amuses me and the other players. At the time this story unfolded, only gallows humor and fear touched our souls. We are fortunate to be alive.

Patrick and I were the brothers we never had. We had our first drink together, our first toke together and our first arrest together. When I moved to Oregon with my soon-to-be wife, he moved to southern California with his soon-to-be wife. I married Kathy on the same day he married Linda. The Feeble Four met at my Oregon apartment in May of 1972 to begin a coastal drive from Mount Angel to Twentynine Palms, California. We saw the majesty of the Redwoods, the snow-capped summits in Lassen while sweating in 90 degree heat, and reveled in the magnificence of raw nature. We arrived at Sequoia National Park, our home for that fateful evening we would always remember. We pitched the tent Patrick had negligently forgotten to pay for. Nature’s night sounds, an harmonious blending of owls, crickets and the occasional baying of distant coyote, wild cats and wolves would later lull us to sleep.

Someday I intend to research the reason every road trip requires emptying extended bladders, or more, at every stop. We encountered this necessity yet again when first pulling into our campsite at Sequoia. Kathy and Linda hobbled tight legged to the women’s facilities, fearing normal movement might create a river streaming down their legs. Patrick and I adopted the manly posture, outrunning Olympic sprinters, screaming, “My God! My God!” as we approached the men’s room. We realized it would be close.

However, we succeeded without the need to bathe or wash clothes. Not that either would have been much of a chore. The facilities were large, clean and contained all the accommodations we could possibly desire. So this was the wilderness? No way! It was a country club in Paradise.

So Kathy, Linda, Patrick and I broke into elephant laughter when we noticed the placards tacked conspicuously on bulletin boards surrounding the facilities. “Beware of Bears,” we read, followed by a litany of activities we should conduct to worry less about bear attacks. Hang up your food, lock car doors, avoid aromatic fragrances, a list so long the words resembled the fine print in a legal document. Patrick was the first to speak.

“Geez! These fools must think we’re complete idiots! So this is the wilderness, huh? More people than Woodstock!” Chuckles all around.

“Right on, Patrick! Another cheap governmental ploy leading us to believe we’re somewhere we’re not! Wilderness? Right! The nearest bear is that stuffed sucker in the General Supermarket we passed up the road!” Again, laughter.

Sweet, petite, demure Linda, whose aristocratic bearing disguised her mischievous soul, spewed forth a litany of cuss words designed to empty a bar room of sailors. We smiled. All was well with the world.

Kathy suddenly stopped laughing, preoccupied, before she hesitantly added, “Hey, all!”

Our laughter diminished to a trickle as we stared at her, awaiting further words. She began again.

“Hey, all. Maybe we should take some precautions. After all, that stuffed bear came from somewhere.”

I stared at my two-month pregnant wife and calmly stated, “Look, Honey. The store probably imported him from Montana. And after all, we do have a secret weapon. That beef stew you and Linda concocted for this trip should scare the bejesus out of any Montana bear on a field trip.”

She smiled, mockingly slapped my face while I was staring at Patrick squeezing Linda’s butt and thinking perhaps we can have some fun on this trip, despite our wives’ simultaneous pregnancies. Yes, Patrick and I always did things together.

Fun we had after going to our tent’s equivalent of beds separated by extra-long Cortinas. Lots and lots and lots of fun. The fun ended an hour before the bears arrived like a swarm of Killer Bees, startling us from near unconsciousness to full alert as they began to ravage our camp site. Our prior scoffing vanished like a fly in a hurricane.

“Oh, Damn!” we said, in perfect four-part harmony. “What do we do now?”

I looked around our tent for a defensive weapon. I saw only two six packs of Coors, not of much use, I thought, until the light flashed in my mind.

“Hey,” said I. “We could offer them a beer! Beer always brings people together!”

Patrick stared at me in utter disgust. “Look, moron! In the event you haven’t noticed, those critters out there are bears, not relapsing recovering alcoholics. Besides, we’ll need the beer to cleanse our wounds or kill the pain. No deal.”

“What then, Patrick? Don’t hear you with any suggestions.”

I then noticed the light bulb flash over his head as he toyed with the gas lantern.

He blurted, “Let’s set the tent on fire! That’ll scare them!”

“Yeah, right, Patrick. For at least fifteen minutes, until they smell our charbroiled bodies and return for a cooked meal. Cretin.”

“What about you, Linda. Any ideas?” Patrick asked.

Her only response was a resounding snore. She had fallen back to sleep.

“How can she sleep during this assault?” I asked Patrick.

Patrick smiled, saying, “Bed exercises create magic, Ed.”

I stifled a laugh before turning to Kathy. Her appearance amazed me. She sat in a lotus position, utterly calm.

“What about you, Kathy?”

“We sit.”

“We sit! What kind of answer is that?”

“We sit, Hon. We have no other choice.”

Patrick and I glanced at each other, followed by glaring at Kathy, ending with a stare at each other.

“She’s right, Ed.”

“Yeah. I know.”

Kathy, Patrick and I sat, while Linda continued to snore. After several hours, the noise dissipated before finally disappearing.

Kathy, Patrick and I hesitantly left the tent. Our campground was a ruin, everything consumed, including parts of our cars. We finally noticed one large jar remaining and not even the threat of eternal damnation could have kept us from laughing. It contained Kathy and Linda’s beef stew.

We no longer considered bears a lower species of life.

As previously stated, hindsight renders this true story hysterical to the four who survived it. It was not so at the time. I undertook subsequent camping trips with the realization I was entering the wilderness, not a tame suburbia. I learned and followed the recommendations of the National Forest Service and experts in the field. Even though bear attacks at national parks are extremely rare, they are not unheard of. So when camping in a National Park or Forest, please adhere to the rules and regulations provided you by the National Park Service upon entry to the park. These rules and regulations are too extensive to state in their entirety. However, hopefully the few rules and regulations I provide will inspire the novice camper to acquire more extensive information before venturing into a unique but potentially deadly adventure.

First, the rules governing camping on federal lands are set forth in 36 CFR 2.10. These rules escaped the typical bureaucratic mind and are easily understood. Any novice camper will benefit from reading these rules.

Second, the deadliest species of bears in the continental United States, the Grizzly Bear, has been extinct in California since 1922. Therefore, I need address only the Black Bear.

Third, Black Bears rarely attack. When they do, it is invariably a predatory attack. The bear is looking f or food. Although the normal black bear does not consider people tasty treats, a starving or injured bear might. The best method of stopping a predatory attack is aggressive action. Attempt to intimidate the bear by screaming, waving your arms and, if absolutely necessary, using any available object to fight back.

Above all, do not emulate the ignorant campers I wrote of above. Read the precautions on cooking and storing food safely provided by the Park Service and posted throughout the park. Hang anything with strong orders, such as toothpaste, bug repellant, deodorant, colognes, perfume, etc., at least ten feet from the ground on trees. If trees are unavailable, use specially designed bear-proof containers to store such items.

Finally, as a method of last resort, Patrick and I own the rights to Kathy’s and Linda’s secret beef stew recipe, guaranteed to frighten even the most vicious wildlife. We shall be only too happy to provide you with a copy of this potent killer recipe for the modest sum of $20.00, plus tax where applicable.

With Sincere Gratitude

I would like to thank the members and visitors to Remnants of the Sixties for their invaluable comments and critiques on this article, a variation of which I will submit as an assignment to a class I am taking at Happy Haven. Any merits this article may have I attribute to these unnamed people such as Zakgirl, Don, Ginger, Sonja and, although the words stick in my throat, Broom Rider as well. If I have missed anyone, it is because of a failing memory, not a lack of appreciation.

All deficiencies are solely mine with the assistance of the sadistic attendants at Happy Haven.

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.