Free Laughs
Mother Nature’s Son is a fount of humor, going back to Adam and Eve (Steve to some, but not me)—if you believe in that not particularly rib-tickling fairy tale—and that’s what forgotten New York City Mayor David Dinkins was getting at (circuitously) in 1989, after he defeated a scowling, no-funny-bone Rudy Giuliani in the first post-Ed Koch general election. A Gorgeous Mosaic! I liked the phrase and hyperbole.
Koch had a mixed record, but though he neglected filling potholes, allowed those squeegee kids to roam at will (I wonder what they’re doing today, that first wave of traffic-jammers) and didn’t care about replaced burnt-out light bulbs on street lamps, I don’t think any objective resident during his three-term tenure, except for the not-yet-coined breed known as “haters,” would deny that Ed was zesty and had fun & funny one-liners not only in the pockets of his suit jacket. A Happy Warrior, like fellow Democrat Hubert H. Humphrey, though the latter was almost never happy-and-you-know-it after picked by LBJ in 1964 to be a pet turd.
Not sure why, but I cracked up the other morning—no witnesses, but I swear on the Bible, so help me, God—when opening a pack of Marlboros and a sliver of paper fell to the floor. It was a sweepstakes come-on, headlined, with an aggravating clash of fonts, “Enter for a chance to WIN A TRIP TO LAS VEGAS. Throw your hat in the ring only at Marlboro.com.” The type then shrank to agate, even tinier than the baseball box scores I, and millions, once scoured in the morning daily. It explained that the scam (legal, but sweepstakes, like lottery tickets, are the Devil’s work) was only for smokers 21 and older, and then proceeded to the mandated caution that “heaters” cause lung cancer, might fuck up pregnancies, bring on heart disease and emphysema, melt your ears when least expected, and will prohibit the purchase of ruby-red slippers from online retailers (who all smoke but have a conscience, unlike Rudy Giuliani).
Maybe the above humor is a head-scratcher, or fly-catcher, to readers, but permit an explanation. Anything that pertains to gambling—including sweepstakes and lottery tickets, the Devil’s work for those with a chipmunk’s attention span—causes a reflection on Shohei Ohtani, MLB’s best and most marketable player since The Bambino. It’s widely suspected that Shohei (not a friend yet) gets off on betting on everything under The Red Sun and recent reports say the superstar and his agent are up to their coiffed ‘dos over a $240 million real estate deal in Hawaii.
It’s funny, although not to the alleged victims, because the crumb-bums who are paid a fortune to preserve the integrity (a slippery word in this context) of the National Pastime—I still do believe, do believe, do believe in that slice of Americana—are drenched by sweat-stained casual wear, because they’d rather sacrifice their right nuts rather than Shohei’s off-diamond hobbies escalating current gambling scandal that’ll make the PED-era look like a Savanah Bananas eephus pitch. MLB Commissioner Rob Manfred—a wretched steward—pulls down around $25 million per annum to police the game, and right now he might not think it’s worth it.
Translation for slow minds: hypocrisy is very funny.
Not so funny, but I guess with an absence of malice (a living’s a living), was an engagement-farming tweet I read the other day. Paraphrase: What version of “You Can’t Hurry Love” do you like better, the Supremes’ or Phil Collins’?” I read three or four comments and then quit: The Super Girls’ monster hit at their peak in 1966 is an all-great. Collins is an afterthought.
Wistfully funny: Top picture on the front page of The Wall Street Journal’s Aug. 15 print edition ran the crazy headline, “Scorching Summer Leaves Icky, Sticky Feeling.” The caption explained that on Aug. 14th in the “Sticky Apple,” a few people at Times Square used umbrellas to block out the sun. The temperature was in the high-80s. It’s August.
The picture above is of my Uncle Joe (looks like he’s reading a work report) with my 16-month old cousin Jerry. Joe’s engrossed, doing double-duty, but Jerry’s plastic cup of green juice must’ve been really rude, judging by that sour look.
Take a look at the clues to figure out the year: Fred Vinson is Supreme Court’s Chief Justice; the first Tony awards are held at NYC’s Waldorf-Astoria; a coal mine explosion in Centralia, Illinois, kills 111; The “Tom and Jerry” cartoon The Cat Concerto is released in theaters; the Yankees, unencumbered by a bored GM, win their 11th World Series; the once-absorbing Meet the Press makes its debut on NBC; Meat Loaf is born and Sonny Marable dies; New York Cubans win the Negro World Series; Joe Louis retains his Heavyweight World Championship; Jimmy Demaret wins the Masters Tournament; and Agatha Christie’s The Labours of Hercules, Vladamir Nabokov’s Bend Sinister, and Rex Stout’s Too Many Women are published.
—Follow Russ Smith on Twitter: @MUGGER2023