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Eb Griper, the Golden Age Humorist

Country Roads

I found my old buddy Eb Griper sitting in his favorite booth in his favorite coffee shop but something was different. Same bad haircut, same worn out bib overalls, same greasy seed corn cap. What was it that wasn’t the same as before?

No newspaper. That was it. In the past I had always found Eb reading the local newspaper but today he was writing on a yellow legal pad.

“What? Don’t tell me you believe the fake media stuff, too,” I said as I slid into the booth.

I apparently startled Eb. “Huh? What are you talking about?”

“You’re not reading a newspaper this morning,” I replied.

“Oh that,” Eb said, “I’m working a new career?”

“You’ve been retired for years,” I said, “what’s with this new career stuff?”

Eb grinned. “I’ve decided I’m going to be a stand-up comedian. I’m writing jokes.”

“You’re what?”

“In my younger days I was known as quite a wit. I’m tired of sitting around the house listening to Hilda tell me what to do, so I’m going to be a stand-up comedian. I’m writing jokes.”

“And you think you’ll get paid for this?”

Eb raised his nose snobbishly. “You bet I do. Would you like a sample of what the Golden Age Humorist has to offer?”

“Absolutely.”

Eb cleared his throat and began. “Good evening, ladies and germs.”

“Eb,” I interrupted, “that’s an old Milton Berle line. You need fresh stuff to make ’em laugh.”

Eb scowled and then continued. “How about, ‘Take my wife, please.'”

“Sorry, Eb, but that’s an old Henny Youngman line.”

“Criminy,” Eb whined, “how should I know all the good stuff is already taken?”

“Just be you,” I advised. “Pick a topic and talk about it. You always have a lot to say about your marriage.”

Eb cleared his throat again. “Okay, how about this? After 59 years of marriage, my wife and I always compromise. I admit I’m wrong and she agrees with me.”

“Dangerous joke,” I warned, “but that’s closer to what you need.”

Eb cleared his throat a third time. “A married man should forget his mistakes, there’s no use in two people remembering the same thing.”

“Still dangerous, but better.”

“Telling your wife to calm down works about as well as trying to baptize a cat.”

“You’re on a roll,” I assured.

“Last night my wife and I had a two-hour fight about whether or not we were fighting.”

“That’s enough wife jokes,” I said. “You’re skating on thin ice.”

“Waking up this morning was an eye-opening experience.” Eb flashed a silly grin.

“Hey, that’s better,” I said.

“When I told my doctor about my loss of memory, he made me pay in advance.”

Eb paused for my reaction. I grinned and nodded my approval.

“My doctor told me that jogging could add years to my life. He was right ̶ I feel ten years older already.”

I was surprised. The old guy was funny.

“I wasn’t originally going to get a brain transplant, but then I changed my mind.”

I was actually enjoying Eb’s routine.

“I can’t believe I got fired from the calendar factory. All I did was take a day off.”

Eb’s delivery was decent and his timing wasn’t bad either.

“I was born to be a pessimist,” Eb continued. “My blood type is B negative … I was going to look for my missing watch, but I could never find the time… Hey, you have something on your chin ̶ no, the third one down… I went to school to become a wit but only got halfway through…”

“This is fun,” I interrupted, “but I need to be going. Thanks for the entertainment.”

“Just one more?” Eb begged. “I have a good one for the finish: People used to laugh at me when I would say ‘I want to be a comedian.’ Well nobody’s laughing now.”

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