Some Concepts Are Hard to Swallow

A few years back I saw the photograph of a woman who was chewing her way through a wall. Why? Because she was an artist— a “Conceptual Artist.” This chewing action (on gypsum board, I’m supposin’) was her way of expressing her art. (The wall, by the way, on which she was chewing, was not in her own apartment, but in that of a friend’s.)

That led me to wonder, “Does she charge people to watch her as she chews her way through walls?” The answer, it turned out, was, “No.” She does not. Why? Because, she explained, that would make her a “Performer,” a lower category of artiste to which she obviously does not aspire.

This woman’s chewsy occupation has inspired me to become a “Conceptual Humorist.” I’m even thinking about having business cards made:

“Jim Lamb, Conceptual Humorist.”

No telephone number. No address. Just name and title. That way when people ask, “ Can I hire you for a wedding or birthday party or bar mitzvah?” I can reply, “Oh, I’m not a Performer; I just do Conceptual Humor.”

For example, the concept I’m working on now is about an out-of-work guy who’s self-loathing and wishes he were dead — but he feels death is too good for him. (Imagine a cross between Lee Harvey Oswald and Woody Allen.) Turns out this fella hears that stand-up comics describe their worst nights as “dying on stage,” and, frankly, that appeals to him because it seems both appropriately humiliating and ongoing.

The problem is he has no jokes — and no money to hire a joke writer.

What to do?

One day, at a convenience store, he sees a box of Bazooka gum. He remembers from his youth that not only is there a hard, pink, gummy square inside, but that each individual piece is wrapped in a colorful, glossy comic strip featuring delightfully pithy jokes.

The guy buys the entire box …

That night he goes to an “Open Mic” at a local comedy club, puts his name on the sign-up sheet, and nervously sits at the back of the room, bubbling with a new-found confidence that can only be produced by two full pockets of as yet-unopened jokes.

Finally, the owner of the club calls his name; he steps up to the microphone, grabs a Bazooka from his pocket, unwraps it, puts the gum in his mouth and proceeds to read the joke.

He gets a nice, respectable ripple of laughter.

His ego lifted, he grabs a second single-pack of Bazooka, takes off the waxy wrapper, pops the gum in his mouth, and — with some effort — manages to chew his way through another joke.

This time he gets both laughs and applause!

Along about Bazooka number five or six, the poor guy’s mouth is so full that what comes out is a garbled mumble.

The audience loves it.

He continues.

By Bazooka number 10, our funny gummy guy is having trouble breathing, but he’s determined not to stop as long as the audience is enjoying his performance.

With Bazooka number 13, disaster strikes. (“Houston, we have a problem.”) The fella begins choking, but the audience thinks it’s part of the act. He points to his mouth, waving his arms like a sausage-winged windmill, trying to act out his problem with erratic, impromptu sign language.

Nothing works.

His face turns blue, his body goes numb, his vision blurs. Bazooka man collapses on stage; his large body produces a pronounced “thud” before going lifeless — a performance that elicits a standing ovation from a grateful crowd …

… if only the guy had been a “Conceptual Artist” …

Jim Lamb is a retired journalist and author of “Orange Socks & Other Colorful Tales,” the story of how he survived Vietnam and kept his sense of humor. He’s been known to re-cycle old stories when he’s too busy to write new ones. For more about Jim, visit www.jslstories.com.