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Humor: Torment Behind the Art

Edward L. Flaim

Beware of Whom You Chide!

Oh geez, yet another 15th of the month arrives, The Writers’ Ezine expects another humor article, and I’m scheduled for an EEG at 8:00 a.m. today to determine whether the shroud that descended upon me during my auto accident has left me alive or dead. I suppose it could be worse. They could expect me to write something funny. Thus far they have not required that, bless their wooden little hearts!

This column shall be brief. If I’m not declared brain dead after the EEG, I’ll be driving to my Pennsylvania estate tomorrow so that I may work on two of my novels in exquisite luxury. I shall write in the exclusive bucolic serenity of Oneida, a community consisting of only six tree-lined streets, regally named First, Second, Third and Fourth Streets, with the streets connecting these majestic roads known as North and South Streets.  And lest I forget, two roads lead into and out of Oneida. Residents named these two roads the Streets Leading Into and Out of Oneida. We residents have no limit to our creativity.

On really wild Saturday nights, we hop the Catholic Church bus to St. Anthony’s in Hazelton, a distant nine miles way, for a fierce night of bingo. I recall sharing a winning card with my grandfather, in Slovak Zedo, when I reached adulthood at 10 and walked away smiling with fifty bucks in my pocket. The Wild Days, when Vegas had nothing over us!

Oneida used to be a “Company Town,” all homes owned by the mine owners and rented to the owners’ miners, who risked their lives daily to support their families, all immigrants, consisting primarily of Slavs and Tyroleans. Eventually the mine owners relinquished their ownership and these immigrants became proud homeowners and reveled in their impoverished success while surrounding communities scoffed. And even these men of  property laughed at their relative success, for they knew their “prosperity” was due to the land barons realization that their serf’s survival was largely dependent upon their ability to hunt game. If conditions had remained stagnant, the nature of their game might well have changed.

Odd. This tale began somewhat humorous and I’m certain some of us smiled, snickered, perhaps even laughed as we did at Mayberry and Hooterville. But when does mirth become inappropriate?

People may laugh, joke, about their own conditions. Even the word “nigger” has become acceptable on television when the conversants are black. Let a white man utter that word and look for his genitals across town.

Do I have a point? Yes. Humor amongst those of the same ethnic or socio-economic conditions, directed at their quirks, foibles, oddities, speech and other unique traits may be acceptable when participated in by the particular groups possessing these traits. But without permission to do so, avoid this type of humor. Black comedians and their audiences freely use the previously forbidden word, “nigger.” But if not black, best not if you wish your body to remain intact. The same is true of all ethnic groups and lifestyles. Anyone who has not walked in my shoes had best not joke about the absurdity of my life, my tiny town, its quaint and unique characters, unless he wishes to wear these shoes in his butt.

One final warning. The residents of Mayberry, Hooterville and yes, even Oneida, are viewing you with skeptical eyes and subtle amusement, much as you view them. An oft told story entails a young New Yorker driving through Derry, Maine, when he screeches to a halt. He stares at what he considers a quaint, picturesque, and not too bright old man dressed in pajamas, rocking slowly in his dilapidated rocker on his decaying porch. After several moments, he asks, “How do I get to Bangor from here?”

The old man gazed at the sky, seemingly immersed in thought, before finally responding, his eyes glimmering, “Sonny? You can’t get there from here.”

He who laughs last…


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.