I have been told that I have the soul of a Borscht Belt comedian. To which I always answer something along the lines of “and he’s never getting it back.”
I have been told that I have the soul of a Borscht Belt comedian.
But I think my sense of humor is usually more along the British line, rife with absurdity, sarcastic word play, self-deprecation and sexual innuendo (itself an innuendo based on word play…). Thus the time I nearly, literally, did myself an injury one night in the summer of 1975 when Channel Thirteen, the New York City PBS affiliate, began running “Monty Python’s Flying Circus.” I first saw the show just as they were beginning the “Ministry of Silly Walks” sketch.
Within a minute of sitting on my bed and turning on the little portable in my room (it was summer break), my father came running to see if I had taken sick or injured myself. He’d heard me making strange noises, and then a loud thump.
I’d been laughing so hard that I had gotten dizzy and rolled off the bed and onto the floor.
A hyper-annuated wannabee scientist with a lovely wife and a mountain biking problem.