IV.—THE OBVIOUS JOKE.
A large class of simple-minded people believe that the obvious joke is the most delightful form of humor. An obvious joke is one whose point or climax can be seen from the very start, and is, in fact, a natural sequence to the beginning.
For example, when we begin to read of a city dude who professed to understand the distinctively rural art of milking a cow, and volunteered to show his friends how to do it, we know perfectly well that he is going to get knocked out in the attempt, and that the story will end in a humorous description of the indignities inflicted upon him by the enraged animal. The only chance for variety in the sketch lies in the manner in which the cow will resent the dude’s impertinence. She may impale him on one or both of her horns; she may hurl him on a dunghill and dance on his prostrate form; she may content herself with kicking him; but whatever she does she will be sure to upset the milk-pail and excite the laughter of the lover of obvious humor. Of course a professional humorist never reads an obvious joke. He knows exactly what is going to happen the moment his eye falls on the first paragraph.
If a tatterdemalion appears at the county fair with a broken-down plug which he offers to trot against any horse on the track, the professional humorist knows that the decrepit charger is going to win the race, and that his owner will go away with his pockets bulging out with the money he has won from the too confiding.
If a man holding four aces is persistently raised by a gentleman of quiet demeanor and bland, childlike face, we can call the latter’s hand without looking at it, because we know from long familiarity with American humorous literature, as well as poker, that he holds a straight flush. Some writers have had the effrontery to deal him a royal flush, forgetting that he has already given his opponent all the aces.
If a gentleman of apparently delicate physique resents the impertinence of a bully who is forcing his attentions upon a lady, we know, without reading to the end of the chapter, that the man of effeminate build is in reality a prize-fighter or a college athlete, and will bundle the bully out on the sidewalk with great rapidity.
The professional humorist shuns these “comics” as he would the plague. They make him tired. He knows how easy they are to construct. Moreover he despises alike the mind that gives them birth and that which finds them funny.
The recipe for their concoction is very simple:
Think of some acquaintance who habitually eats sugar on his lettuce and sweetens his claret. The man who says, “I don’t want none of this I-talian caterwaulin’. The good old-fashioned tunes, like ‘Silver Threads among the Gold,’ suit me right down to the ground. I don’t want none of yer fancy gimcracks ’n’ kickshaws in mine.” Try to remember the sort of thing that has moved this man to laughter, and then fashion a joke on the same plan, taking pains to make it apparent to the most primitive intellect.
Persons of this description are found in large numbers in the rural districts, and, therefore, any story tending to cast ridicule on the city man who puts on airs, or, in other words, affects the amenities of civilized life, is sure to be appreciated.
For example: It is the delight of sportsmen to fish for trout with fly-rods and tackle of an elaborate description, to the intense amusement of the yokel who catches fish, not for sport, but in order that he may sell them at an exorbitant price to some ignorant stranger. Now it is a very easy matter to compose a story on this basis suited to the comprehension of such a rustic.
The following is a fair specimen of a story of the class I have described:
“He was a real sportsman, just from the city, and he had come down into the country to show the benighted inhabitants how to catch fish. He had a new patent rod in his right hand and a brand-new basket over his left shoulder. In his coat-tail pocket he carried a silver flask, and in his breast-pocket a big wallet filled with all the latest devices in newfangled flies. He walked down the road with the air of a man who had come to catch fish and knew just how to do it.
“It was growing dark when he returned to the hotel, wet, muddy, and weary, and sadly laid aside his implements of sport.
“‘Fish don’t bite in this blawsted country, yer know,’ was his reply to the landlord’s cheery inquiry, ‘What luck?’
“And just at this moment who should come along but old Bill Simons’s sandy-haired, freckle-faced boy Jim, with his birch-pole over his shoulder, and a fine string of the speckled beauties in his brown paw.
“‘Good Gawd!’ exclaimed the dude, ‘how did you catch those, me boy?’
“‘Hook ’n’ line, yer fool! How d’yer s’pose?’ was Jim’s answer, as he pulled a handful of angleworms, the last of his bait, from his pocket, and threw them out of the window.”