By Jim Hagarty
I’m not sure what the job description for a humour writer might be, if one was ever written, but it would probably contain some fuzzy stuff such as “observes human behaviour and characteristics and comments humourously on the data collected by such examinations.” A more simply stated directive might say, “Pokes fun at everybody.” An even briefer outline would be, “Class clown.”
Having written humour for several decades now, I know a little of which I speak. I have come to the conclusion that we humour writers are incredibly insecure and spend our lives looking for laughs wherever we can find them. In the process, we develop a few human characteristics of our own.
First of all, we have egos the size of cathedrals. This translates onto the page as an almost insufferable superiority, albeit one that is skilfully hidden, lest our readers think us to be pompous. Our basic premise is this, however: anyone who thinks, acts, or looks differently from us, is a perfect candidate for our ridicule because, basically, to have the nerve to have ways that are not similar to our own is to be hopelessly wrong.
This is why becoming educated is a poor career move for a humour writer because as he discovers the real reasons why others are the way they are, he will inevitably lose his appetite for putting them down. And therefore, his “edge.”
The second main thing to know about the breed known as the humourist is that we were born without a conscience. There is almost no situation in life that we will consider off limits for mockery, whether it be religion, poverty, marriage or terminal illness. In fact, we love to laugh at death. The truth is, it scares the life out of us. As does marriage, religion and the prospect of poverty.
We are the original whistlers past the graveyard.
Finally, the most significant thing to know about the humour writer is that absolutely everyone we meet, sooner or later, will come into our sights. Our targets include wives, children, co-workers, friends, pets – basically any living thing that makes the mistake of wandering into our view. When one of them objects to being pummelled in print, we react with hostility, “Learn to take a joke, will ya!”
I had reason to be reminded of this last point recently when I had coffee with an old friend who is a humour writer like me. I hadn’t seen him in a while and as we sat down in the coffee shop, I removed my cap. As I did, I noticed his eyes fix in some surprise on the top of my head and his eyebrows shoot up as he noticed how completely hairless my scalp had become since our last get-together. I knew what he was doing and thinking, as I, like him, am a keen observer of my fellow humans.
I thought nothing more of it at the time, but I might have guessed the outcome of his consternation at my clear-cut cranium had I mused on it a while.
Six days later, my mouth dropped open as I read a column by my friend on the subject of male baldness and the various steps he has noticed his balding friends are taking to either cover up or cope with their condition.
My friend, of course, has a full head of hair, and so, inevitably, would find much mirth in those around him who aren’t so follicly endowed.
Had I been betrayed?
Not really.
More like repaid.
And educated.
“So, that’s how it feels,” I thought. It wasn’t the end of the world. My name wasn’t in print for all to see.
But the incident reminded me about two other features of the class clown.
We are painfully thin-skinned, better at giving it than taking it.
And we often sat alone at lunch in the school cafeteria.
If you doubt the truth of any of this, consider the fact that I have just written about my “friend” who wrote about me.
Humour writing, after all, is also primarily about getting the last word.
