Punchlines

My favorite punch line is “This is the s*** that killed Elvis.”   It’s a sentimental favorite because it belongs to a story my youngest son, Kyle, told me shortly before he moved away from home and left me in an empty nest laughing at old jokes.

When my oldest son, Keith, left home to go play, there weren’t any stories or jokes.  He took an old voting machine he’d picked up somewhere and my Woodstock LP. He left his Social Security card, car insurance info and a very dirty carpet.

When Kyle decamped to start a life with a very fine girlfriend, he took everything he needed and made it a point to leave me laughing.  This is the kid that held my mother’s hand on the night she died until she told him to go home. His jump, more of a hop, into adulthood marked the beginning of my old age.

But the stories he left behind—or stops by to tell me—still make me laugh.  The time, for example when he and his best friend walked the mean streets of Fort Lauderdale trying to sell a chinchilla.  On the same walkabout a fellow tried to sell Kyle and his best friend Kyle a purebred pit bull puppy for $100.  No takers? Ok the puppy was a half breed, and the guy would settle for $50. Still no takers?  You get the idea.

Other punch lines that dot the i in lives are the corny but great ones:  “I did NOT ask for a six-inch PIANIST, “says the man in the genie joke.  There are the shorthand jokes between people who have lived together for a long time.  My husband and I use a line from Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams:  “Thanks for all the fish,” to say anything or nothing.

And there are the unspoken jokes between girlfriends when one look exchanged between middle-aged women in the presence of a bad toupee or amid the roar of a fully outfitted F250 pickup truck can spark a giggling fit reminiscent of a ninth-grade slumber party.

So the story with the Elvis punch line is really a story about a guy Kyle knows who ended up working for a moving company.  During a move, Kyle’s buddy didn’t hit it off with a company client, and in an effort to keep his job and make amends for a few sharp exchanges, the friend agreed to stay for a quick drink after work.  After taking a few sips, he reviewed the drink with the comment, “This is the s*** that killed Elvis.”  His host lost his temper, announced that pills killed Elvis and that was the end of that job.

Maybe the funny part is the way I try to work it into my life.  I keep retiree hours so when I’m sitting at World Famous Red’s, a  bar and social epicenter for straight folk in my neighborhood at 6 pm,  I comment to the barmaid and two old guys waiting for 9 pm and karaoke that the wine I’m drinking may have killed Elvis. Silence.  It may be a statement of fact concerning the wine, but being ignored in Red’s is a lonely feeling. 

Maybe I’ll tell them about the guy who asks a genie for a eight-inch p****.