Flogging A Dead Joke

Hello. If you have not already read Sunday’s Gene Pool, I urge you to read it now. It’s short, funny, and stomach-churningly disgusting, concerning my recent surgery and subsequent hospital stay, and serves as a backdrop and explainer for this here Gene Pool. I posted this one early because I have a doctor’s appointment at noon, but you will still be getting a full-blown post, with beaucoup questions and answers. If you ask more questions, which I hope you do, I will get to them not in real time on Thursday.

Today’s questions were mostly asked last week, in response to my request for amusing personal medical stories. As they came in, I was supine, and moaning and oozing things out of multiple orifices, so I could not get to them right away; you’ll get them below. You guys did well.

It turns out when you are really sick, people will try to make you laugh, which is a good impulse, maybe the best impulse in an impossible situation. The following story (slightly edited) was sent to me by Tom Manteuffel, Rachel’s pa. I spent some time trying to figure out what it was, exactly: It is anecdotal and situational, which are types of jokes, but it is not a joke, exactly. It is not a riddle, though it is framed as one. It is ironic and farcical, but it is neither irony nor farce, per se. It is absurdist and hyperbolic, but neither adjective describes it precisely. Is it an Erraglio Tortuna, a sophisticated 17th century Italian rhetorical device I just now made up? Whatever it is, it’s pretty lovely.

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Guy buys a horse from a farmer for $250. The farmer agrees to deliver the horse the next day. The next day, the farmer drives up and said, "Sorry son, but I have some bad news.  The horse died."
Guy replies, "Well, then just give me my money back.”
Farmer says, "Cain’t do that. I went and spent it already."
Guy says, "Ok, then, just bring me the dead horse.”
“What?” Whatcha gonna do with him?”
“I’ve got a plan.”
The dead horse changes hands. A month later, the farmer meets up with the guy (it’s a pretty small town) and asks, "What happened with that dead horse?"
"I raffled him off. Didn’t say he was dead, but also didn’t say he wasn’t. I sold 500 tickets at five dollars apiece and made a profit — minus the $250 I paid for the horse — of $2,225."
”Wasn’t the winner hoppin’ mad when he found out he got hisself a dead horse?”
“Sure he was, but I gave him back his five dollars, threw in an extra twenty, and he was rid of the dead-horse disposal problem, and happy as a clam.”

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In the hospital, someone else gave me a book of jokes. It is titled “The Most Funniest Joke Book EVER,” filled with — as are all such books — relentlessly wholesome jokes. And yes, this was not the worst of its kind — it actually might be the most funniest joke book ever, but that is a deeply backhanded compliment, like saying Twinkies are the best sponge-cake snack treat with an artificial cream-sugar filling blended with corn syrup, water, salt, and cellulose gum, EVER. I have read the whole thing so you don’t have to and was shocked to find some threads of actual semi-mirth. In today’s Gene Pool Gene Poll I am presenting five jokes from it; your job is to choose the best of them. Yes, you must choose one, even if it is selecting a Twinkie over a Ho Ho. (And please note: There is a correct answer, which I will inform you of at the end of the Gene Pool, and some of you can feel stupid.)

Joke One: “It took me five years to write this lullaby.” “Why so long?” “It kept putting me to sleep.”

Joke Two: When can two fully mature Indian elephants stand under one normal sized umbrella and not get wet? ……. When it’s not raining.

Joke Three: Why did the Pilgrim’s pants fall down? …….. Because he was wearing his belt buckle on his hat.

Joke Four: “When I got into my car this morning, the steering wheel, pedals and radio were gone! Stolen! I immediately called the cops and they showed up right away.” “What did they say?” “They said I was in the back seat.”

Joke Five: “Our English teacher is really old.” “Why do you say that?” “She said she taught Shakespeare.”

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Here come your questions and stories, and my answers.

Q: Did you omit any disgusting details from your revolting recap of your time in the hospital?

A: Only one, and it was by accidental omission. During the surgery , the surgeon implanted a “drain” through which bubbly surgery detritus would seep down into a bag hanging from my jaw for the next five days, into which would flow an unappetizing exudate of blood, plasma and other goo. All the tubes, and the collecting bulb, were transparent. I kind of looked like Hooch, from the excellent movie Turner & Hooch.

Q: I'm so glad you are out of surgery and doing better, even with all the crazy side effects! Also: I think it is extremely creepy & frankly should be illegal for hospitals to put crucifixes in recovery rooms!! As a (resentful, angry) lapsed Catholic I would be very angry if I were forced against my will to stare down down Plastic Marvel Figurine Jesus while on the mend from a serious surgery and effectively a captive audience!! That is all - stay well.

A: I was not at all angry about the Marvel Jesus, I think because I am NOT a resentful lapsed Catholic. I understand the anger of relapsed Catholics, I just don’t have the background to share it. I am never offended when someone offers me blessings or comes to my door trying to convert me to Jesus. or who says “Merry Christmas.” In this case, honestly, I was grateful, because He gave me a laugh. I needed one. (It just now occurred to me that the capitalized “He” is quite appropriate to “He-Man.”)

Q: Was this the worst medical thing that ever happened to you?

A: Probably the second worst. In 1991, I was unexpectedly diagnosed with semi-advanced Hepatitis C, which at the time seemed to be fatal. Years of existential uncertainly followed, though some of that experience was good. It did lead to getting my first book published, which caused me to learn just enough actual medicine so that I could wield it with gleeful irresponsibility ever since in columns, books, online, etc. It also acquainted me with my favorite medical quote of all time, from John Lockhart-Mummery, a famed British proctologist from the early 1900s. Lockhart-Mummery was such a giant in his profession that he could publicly articulate something that had been known in the profession but never stated, out of concerns for decency: “Anything that can be inserted into the human rectum has been inserted into the human rectum.”

Q: Okay, fess up. In your Sunday Gene Pool post, what did you mean by your “reprobate, dissolute lifetime lifestyle”? Is there something you’d like to tell us?

A: The usual stuff, mostly. Prostitutes, holding up pharmacies for the hard drugs then shooting up in the getaway car, heavy S&M and bondage, vomit exchange, enemas, hammer discipline, autoerotic asphyxiation, sheep, opium dens, coprophagia, diaper play. The routine stuff.

Really, I was just talking about drink. I had my first drink at 11 and never really stopped. I’m an interesting case. I’ve writ about this before. I’ve only very seldom been drunk; never lost a day at work because of drink, never had a car accident because of it, no incidents of domestic violence, no absurd risk-taking — just no classic red flags. I’m pretty accomplished. For most of my adult life, though, I’ve had at least one drink every day; to some experts, that is a sign of alcoholism; to others, no. The best sign that is a problem is that, from time to time, it has bothered me.

For this surgery, I did as the doctors advised and had no alcohol for 48 hours before the procedure. Some of the doctors treating me afterwards theorized that my body might have interpreted this as “detoxing,” and it is true that detoxing, in the presence of trauma, can result in blood-pressure swings. I think this theory lost some weight in the ensuing week, when the BP madness continued despite my being as clean as a marble countertop at the pope’s residence in the Vatican after being wiped with Mr. Clean. (In the last week, my simile skills have taken a hit.) But I’m not saying the docs are wrong; I just don’t know.

This experience has sobered me quite a bit, literally and figuratively. I’ve given most of my lifestyle up, except the sheep.

Q: Hey, Gene — I’m glad you’re recovering and hoping you’re feeling ok. Here’s my question: Your blog often talks about the Empress. There’s a photo of you and Rachel in the hospital. You’ve also mentioned another female name and names. I’m really confused as to who is who. Could you post a character list to help the clueless. Example: Maury is my former great-uncle on my father’s side, who refused to shave their mustache when they came out as my great-aunt at the age of 75, on the theory that 75-year-old women often have mustaches, albeit usually unintentionally.

A: Where you been for the last 30 years?

I have to say, though, I see your confusion. In my world, there are many more women’s names than there are women. (Superficially related observation: The Equine Paradox establishes that there are more horse’s asses in the world than horses. This has nothing to do with the Weingarten Woman Paradox, an entirely different phenomenon, without any attendant ridicule, but it seemed like a great moment to drop this in.)

The WWP: Rachel is by conventional parlance my “girlfriend,” a strange and diminutizing word to ever use about anyone over 18, in my opinion, let alone when applied to a 39 year old person,  so I invented the substitute word, “fnorf,” which might have confused you into thinking this was a different woman. Same one.

The Empress ran The Style Invitational for 20 years, and still runs the Invitational, partnered with me.  She is definitely to be confused with Pat Myers, which is her real name. Not a different woman. She is also “Pat The Perfect,” a name I gave to her many years ago when she was my chief and only consultant on matters of language because she is the best copy editor who ever lived in the English-speaking world, so right there we have three names for one woman.  

Other females closely associated with me include Chatwoman, the originator and first snarky and widely beloved producer of my chat in the Wapo. Chatwoman is Liz Kelly, so there you have two more names for one actual woman.

Other chat producers over the years have included the uber-competent “Sparky,” whose real name is Abha Bhatterai, from which I engineered Sparky for obvious reasons.  

Then there is Gina, my sparring parter for many columns and this book. She is the feminist scholar, columnist and author Gina Barreca, but I also publicly called her “Stinkypants” and “doll,” just to piss her off. Three more names, one woman.   (Aside: I emailed Gina yesterday to confirm “Stinkypants,” and she initially declined to engage me because my email was not sufficiently smart-ass, and she suspected I was some bot. So I had to send subsequent wiseacre emails to reassure her. In one I casually asked for her Social Security Number.)

Many, many years ago I referred frequently and affectionately to The Rib, my then-wife, who no longer is that. She has a real, actual normal human name but always preferred that I not use it, and I’ll not violate that promise here. 

There are also Murphy and Lexi, both females. They are hound dogs, though there’s nothing wrong with that.  My fnorf and I sometimes call Lexi “Penrose McDork,” so there’s one more extra girl name right there. 

Q: Is it OK to watch reruns of the Cosby Show? I need a graduate course in ethics to come to a certain conclusion. How does one draw a line between artist and art? I could discuss this with friends, but I figure I’ll get a one word answer from you first.

A: One draws that line with confidence and precision. I have addressed this before. I think this is best explained through a close but better delineated example. IMO, Louis CK is one of the best standup comics who ever lived. His routines are not only side-splitting and voiced and rich with personality, but often deliver difficult truths in convincing ways. Do we no say NO! I no longer want to hear those richly nuanced difficult truths because he’s a bad, sexually predatory man? Or do we watch it, with his badness as an interesting, discussable ironic background? Can we not watch his brilliant piece on how he is beset by a brain that is poisoned by lust, and realize its brilliance but cringe at how much closer to the ugly truth it is than we’d thought?

Cosby may not be as brilliant as CK, but his show was groundbreaking — vitally important — to establishing black families as smart, funny and, goddamn it, normal, to a racist world. Are we so infantile that we decide to blind ourselves to that because he is a huge predatory creep? Are we so moronic that we can’t watch it with two competing thoughts at the same time?

The only caveat is if you are watching something on a venue that delivers cash-per view to the artist — even youtube sometimes does this — a different calculus may apply. In most cases this is negligible (unless it is a new, for-profit performance) but I guess we can’t ignore this factor entirely.) Also this question is based on the assumption that you still WANT to see old Cosby shows; if it would repel you, obviously, the issue is moot.

I expect pushback. I might deserve some.

Q: I had a not-so-funny accident that led to a somewhat inappropriate joke--I don't think it was inappropriate but it made my sister uncomfortable at the time. I had a car accident on Feb 7, 1996 around 4 am, so I can give you the actual day this happened. I hit a patch of black ice at the top of an interstate exit ramp and slid into a large snow bank. The force and angle were just right (or wrong?) to cause my car to roll twice. The car ended up sitting on all four wheels in the median between the road and off ramp. The driver side roof caved, crushing me downward resulting in a compression fracture of my spine. I was left paralyzed from the chest down. Later that evening, I had surgery to fuse and stabilize the spine. As I was being moved from recovery to a room, my sister was there with me. She said a couple of workers were talking and one was complaining about sleeping wrong and being sore. Ever the smart ass, I popped off and said that ""I did something this morning and I've been stiff as a board all day."" She laughs about it now, but at the time (for her) it was too soon."

A: I think I know who you are, and I love your sense of humor, Jon. And your spirit.

Q: About 20 years ago my mother, then in her 60s, had a physical and received ghastly news about her heart. I no longer recall the details. She received an emergency cardiology referral, which found that she was in above-average good condition cardiologically. The good review was then confirmed with duplicate testing. My mother is a retired hospital R.N. She believes there was an I.D. mix up and that she got someone else's bad test results, and that somebody else got her good test results and therefore did nothing and then dropped dead. 

A: Good God.  These were supposed to be amusing anecdotes.  But, just for the record, your ma is probably right.

Q: Okay, this is from a few questions back, but you asked for stupid dirty jokes we heard as kids.   First dirty joke I remember comes courtesy Eddie Murphy: A bear and a rabbit are both taking a dump in the woods. The bear asks the rabbit: “Do you have a problem with poop sticking to your fur?” The rabbit says no. So the bear picks the rabbit up and uses it to wipe his ass.

A: Nice. I feel I may have used this before but it “bears” repeating.

Q: Your hospital room Jesus had a camel toe.  Just an observation.  Not that there's anything wrong with that.

A: Thank you.

Q: True story. At the ER: “How much does it hurt? On a scale of one to ten.”
That was a puzzler ... the pain in my torso seemed seemed like a ten … so I said, “Nine.
After checking me in the nurse said my doctor would be Doctor Seuss.
“DOCTOR SEUSS?!!” I gasped and have no memory of anything after that.
When I came to I was stretched out on a table. I don’t know how long I was there.A fellow in a white coat came in holding a clipboard. “You had a kidney stone.. I’m Dr. Ziu.”

A: Thank you. At the hospital they kept asking me what my pain level was. It is the dumbest medical question out there. One person’s six is another person’s two, and to a drug-seeking patient, all levels are ten.

Q: When I was a kid, a doctor stitched me up for a finger injury. Did a good job.  His cologne or after shave smelled a little odd.  It wasn't until my freshman year in college that I smelled that odor again.  It was whiskey."

A: Thank you. When I was a kid, my dentist — whom I called Dr. Bliss because he liberally dispensed nitrous oxide — had the same cologne.

Q: How is The Gene Pool doing?

A: Depends what your measure is. In terms of reader loyalty, the percentage of subscribers who read it all the time, it is top rank. You are a wildly enthusiastic crowd. In terms of spread, also great: We are in 49 states and 70-plus countries. In terms of financial viability, only okay — better than average, substack-wise. We have many hundreds of paid subscribers, but the hope for a truly successful business model, a self-sufficient business model, was many thousands. This may eventually entail a difficult decision many months from now, but for the moment we are still committed and going strong. I’m loving doing it, as is Ms. Pat Empress Perfect. I think we both consider bringing back the Invitational to be a significant achievement.

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This is a test to see how many of you are still here and paying attention. A final Gene Pool Gene Poll for today.

Okay, as promised, here are the answers to the Joke Poll: The funniest joke is Number Four. Then, number five. Then, in descending order, three, two, one.

See you on Thursday with the Invitational. Please send in questions, medical stories, jokes, observations, etc., here.

As always, you may comment about anything. I will trawl the comments later, and add my two cents.

Speaking of two cents:

Oh, and this just in!! The lawyer for one of the penile implant firms named "Foster Johnson." (Thanks to Mike Pontillo.)