When She was teaching, one of her kids asked her what I did for a living.
“He’s a humorist,” She said.
“A humorist?” What? Where did she get that?
Garrison Keillor, Mark Twain, Art Buchwald — those guys were “humorists.”
“What is a humorist?” You ask. I knew you would ask. Sooner or later, one of you would try to stop me in the market as I fled, masked and frightened, and ask me, “What is a humorist?”
So I looked it up.
“A humorist or humourist is an intellectual who uses humor, or wit, in writing or public speaking.”
OK, I like that. Am I an intellectual? But why didn’t I know I was one, when I was young and trying to pick up bridesmaids at weddings, servers at bar mitzvahs and cute bartenders at funerals?
“Hi, I’m Jimmy Devine. I’m an intellectual. You come here often?”
There’s more: “But the humorist is not an artist who seeks only to elicit laughs. Humorists are distinct from comedians, who are show business entertainers.”
How do you tell a humorist from a comedian? In the early days of television, it was easy.
A comedian was the guy in a loud sports coat who always had an opening line, like Rodney Dangerfield and his “I don’t get no respect,” or Soupy Sales, whose schtick was hitting someone in the face with a cream pie.
A humorist always appeared on late night shows, wearing a tweed jacket or sweater, such as the late Mort Sahl, Garrison Keillor or Fran Lebowitz, or the late British “humorist” Noel Coward, who simply said, “I have a talent to amuse.”
In politics, it’s the lawyer who told us that Congressman Matt Gaetz was innocent, because he didn’t know that he was sleeping with “Lolita.”
In ancient days, kings and such had these stand-up comics called “jesters,” who did nothing else but make the king forget he was losing the war.
This little guy got to stay home in the castle, to make the king laugh, much like Donald Trump and Mark Meadows, who used Rudy Giuliani as the jester.
You know what I’m saying to you here?
So here I am, your local “humorist,” your Sunday morning jester, sitting by your breakfast table hoping you’ll laugh and throw me a waffle.
It’s almost impossible to be a humorist these pandemic days, and harder to be a comedian.
You’re worried this morning about monkeypox or caterpillars, the price of gas and no baby formula, or a relative who is trying to get an abortion. See? That’s a joke.
So what will She put on my gravestone when I pass? That is, if She, who said I was a “humorist,” has any money left to buy one.
I prefer this quote by the great Spanish humorist Rafael Sabatini: “He was born with a gift of laughter, and a sense that the world was mad.”
OK, finish your waffles.
J.P. Devine is a Waterville writer.
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