It is Day Four of the workshop “Put Some Funny in Your Writing” and I haven’t been very funny as I’ve admitted in my scribbling of the previous three days.
Our assignment for today is to write a brief monologue for our favorite comedian or if you prefer, write a monologue for your favorite movie star who is not actually a comedian but wants to try their hand at funny.
To get in a funny mood I sometimes pretend I am Larry David. I have no trouble imitating him as it was once implied by my friend that I was a female Larry David and she was wary of me socially, did not want any trouble and when another friend concurred, I was excluded from parts of their life, the fun parts with famous people and parties and rock concerts. How unfunny is that?
The fact is, I don’t pretend to be LD as much as I have that same kind of antagonistic personality; easily irritated by fools, freaks and those who have lost touch with reality but insist on their importance anyway. Let’s just say I know how it is to be the type who puts people off. And yes, I’ve had my share of friends but they drop me. It’s hilarious on TV but no one likes you in real life. I touched on this is Day Three on Sarcasm. I’m a threat but not sure if that’s funny or just daft.
If you were with me in the mall two days ago with my sister you might not find me funny at all but in truth, I was hilarious though I am telling you, not showing you and I haven’t time for showing in this quick exercise that is supposed to be about funny for someone else. Okay, but I’ll make it brief:
A woman in a department store that shall remain nameless, sprayed me with perfume, a brand I particularly dislike to the point of nausea if I get any on me. That could have set me off but I remained cool hoping to escape perfume poison and not end up in the ladies room with my head in the toilet. We were on the fourth floor looking at coats; the new spring selections had supposedly arrived and we were plenty tired of our winter rag and looking forward to something new, something fresh. It was hot in the store, the perfume was making me sick and I started ranting about how there was an entire floor devoted to coats but in actuality, only one coat because every one of them was the same color, black, the same purpose rain & shine, the same material, micro-fiber/poly/latex/rubber-infused/cloth-like substance. This puzzled me as it is a really big store and the variety could have been endless. And although I got a few laughs from other ladies also hoping for a more spring-like coat in, say, coral, white or even basic tan, not to mention the graphics, floral designs and day-glows seen in the magazines, all apparently beyond our expectation, it was somewhat disheartening. Black, take it or leave it. If we wanted black, we could stay with our winter coat, I grumbled to my sister. Everyone laughed and agreed. My sister was tensely pawing through the racks in search of that one treasure buried amongst the dross.
An imperious salesman overheard me since I wasn’t exactly whispering but had begun a whole standup routine on the idiocy of the buyers for this store, encouraged by another woman who added her bit to it, and well, we were on a roll when I was asked to either leave or pipe down and my sister was sorely peeved because we did not get to the fifth floor to look at bras after I told him that I couldn’t help myself so disappointed was I in the coat selection. I insisted he take stock and agree with me. He remained impassive, we were getting overheated, in need of a cooling off and determined to part company if we could only find the exit through that sea of black treachery.
I don’t have time to go into more details of my diatribe because I can’t scribble that fast and we are on the clock but my sister and I did not get a coat that day, much less a bra which didn’t bother me but got her in a snit.
Now, the reason I bring this story into the exercise is because I can see Meryl Streep doing this routine perfectly, but anyone hot flashing or demented by too many disappointing shopping seasons past could do it. That’s all I’m saying and while it’s not riotously funny, it could be mildly amusing on the right person. I did not go into my interpretation of the shoe department, that panoply of torture chambers, fantastical delusion and improbable balancing acts, or the miserably dreary career department; the how-to-dress-for-a-success-you-don’t-really-want-no-one-wants-for-you-but-don’t-worry-you-won’t-be-promoted-in-these-boring-stiff-poly-black-suits-anyway department.
Our time is up, we now have to read what we’ve written to the class. I’m not looking forward to my turn because I don’t think I nailed it exactly but at least I’m wearing a cheerful dress and a good shoe. But someone here is wearing an obnoxious perfume. It’s always something, as Gilda Radner, who knew from funny, used to say.
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