An anonymous reader writes to say he was “deeply offended” by the X.J. Kennedy poems I posted on Friday. Fair enough, though no one compelled him to read them or to visit this blog. Humor is at least as personal as our sexual and culinary tastes. A joke that seizes me with laughter– and Kennedy’s poems qualify as a species of elegant joke -- may leave you grim-faced. In tune with the times, the reader took his complaint another step and called me “sexist” and “homophobic,” which will come as a surprise to my family and friends. I detected in his tone and phrasing not genuine offense, which might have moved me to offer a qualified apology, but a certain pleasure in righteous indignation. He seemed to enjoy feigning strong offense, a state that carries with it a certain intoxicating sense of moral superiority.
I’ve never been offended by a joke. Some good ones make me smile years after first hearing them, while leaving me a bit uncomfortable. These I might share only discreetly, with those whose sense of humor and emotional elasticity I trust and find compatible. That’s only common sense.
The best book I know on the subject is Jokes: Philosophical Thoughts on Joking Matters (1999) by Ted Cohen, professor of philosophy at the University of Chicago. Most writers on humor, including Freud and Bergson, are deadly. Cohen is different. He likes humor and humorous people, and probably half of his slender volume (99 pages, counting the index) is composed of jokes, most of them at least good. The portion pertinent to my reader comes in the final pages, after Cohen describes a young white college student who feels guilty about the fear he experiences walking through a black neighborhood at night. Cohen assures him his fears are not symptomatic of incipient racism and that “it might well be a practical error not to have the feeling.” Then he applies the same reasoning to jokes that make some people uncomfortable:
“Wish there were no mean jokes. Try remaking the world so that such jokes will have no place, will not arise. But do not deny that they are funny. That denial is a pretense that will help nothing. And it is at least possible, sometimes, that the jokes themselves do help something. Perhaps they help us to bear unbearable affronts like crude racism and stubborn prejudice by letting us laugh while we take a breather.”
In the spirit of fairness and to show I can take it, let me relate a joke reported by Cohen. To give it the necessary context, understand that my paternal grandparents were born in Poland:
“A Polish man walks up to a counter and says, `I want to buy some sausage.’
“`You want Polish sausage?’ asks the clerk. `Kielbasa?’
“`Why do you think I want Polish sausage?’ replies the man indignantly. `Why wouldn’t I want Italian sausage, or Jewish sausage? Do I look Polish? What makes you think I’m Polish?’
"The clerk responds, `This is a hardware store.’”
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A few months ago I found a copy of THE MYRON COHEN JOKEBOOK in a used book store. When I was 10 years old my parents took me to the Ed Sullivan Show and Myron was one of the acts. In December 1993, I attended the opening of the MGM Grand in Las Vegas; the computer company I worked for had supplied the online gaming equipment. After winning $100 or so (a sports bet on Wisconsin, where I went to grad school) I went into the bar to treat my friends, and we met Buddy Hackett who was killing everyone at the bar with jokes. He told us his "favorite joke ever" -- which I can't repeat here lest your uptight readers get offended. BH said that Myron was one of his idols. So here's one of Myron's:
There was a monastery where the monks were allowed to speak aloud on only one day of the year. And on that day only one monk was permitted to say anything. One year, on the appointed day, the monk whose turn it was to talk stood up and said, “I hate the mashed potatoes we have here. They’re always lumpy.” Having spoken, he sat down and lapsed into silence again. Another year passed by, until the day for talking came once again. Another monk arose and said, “I like the mashed potatoes. I think they’re delicious. In fact I can hardly wait for the night when we have mashed potatoes.” Again, silence for twelve months. Finally, the day arrived when a third monk was allowed to speak. “I want a transfer to another monastery,” he said. “I can’t stand this constant bickering.” — Myron Cohen
The world is full of fools and most of them have internet access and nothing better to do than prowl around waiting to scream "anti-semitic!" or "racist!" or "Nazi!" or whatever's currently fashionable.
Have you heard about the merger of Victoria's Secret and Smith & Wesson?
They will now be known as Titty Titty, Bang Bang.
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