WHAT MAKES PEOPLE LAUGH

My friend, Judge Bill, always at the ready with a play on words, sometimes sacrifices sense for nonsense or a pun, or both. In response to a comment I made recently that the Christian God is a God of Peace and Love whereas the Muslims foster War and Hate, Judge Rader mused: "Oh yes, Muslim. That's that strong cotton cloth used for making bedsheets."

Word buffs through the ages have been incorrigible punsters notwithstanding outcries from purists and parrots. But what makes people laugh varies with individuals as well as with circumstance. At this writing, we find it difficult to laugh at anything in view of the heat and humidity and the horrendous ravages caused by the unpredictable Mighty Mo. Still, a number of flood victims are doing what many comedians say caused them to settle for comedy. They're laughing to keep from crying.

In any event, everyone needs an occasional respite, and I herewith present a few examples of what has made me laugh or at least smile on occasion.

Jay Leno claims he discovered he was a comedian in the fourth grade. His teacher was discussing Robin Hood and how the Sheriff of Nottingham was accustomed to getting Robin's Merry Men and boiling them in oil. Jay interrupted to say they couldn't boil Tuck. "Why not?" countered the teacher. "Because he was a friar," explained Jay. His teacher was only grudgingly amused, but the whole class roared. This convinced Leno he had found his life's work to make people laugh. His fourth-grade effort made me laugh decades later.

A current TV commercial advertises six types of individual camping tents, and prospective buyers are guaranteed that these tents "are certainly free from sex problems." Why did I laugh? Because the commercial also shows how many campers and individual tents can be accommodated on a single camp ground.

On a TV special last week, I watched a helicopter pilot, knee-deep in water, hold up a little dog he had just rescued. "He has a wife and two kids at home," the reporter enlarged. "Who, the puppy, or the pilot?" I couldn't resist asking aloud. I wasn't unsympathetic toward the endangered puppy, but misplaced modifiers always bring out the worst in me.

A friend who shuns identity has sent me a list of statements found on insurance forms in which car drivers tried to summarize details of accidents in as few words as possible. First on the list was: "Coming home I drove into the wrong house and collided with a tree I didn't have." A young gentleman of my acquaintance chose another as his favorite: "I pulled away from the edge of the road, glanced at my mother-in-law, and headed for the embankment."

One morning a little while back, Charles Osgood of radio fame declared: "Forecasting is risky. Especially when it's about the future." On another broadcast, he informed his radio audience that a new clock had been invented that is off only one millionth of a second every million years. "Who says things aren't getting better?" Osgood challenged doomsayers.

A paraphrase in the July 19 issue of U.S. News and World Report tickled my funny bone: "Welcome to Faster-piece Theatre." The brief item beneath the headline stated that London's Gatwick Airport, beginning July 24, would be staging Shakespearean entertainment for the approximately 100,000 travelers who pass through the airport every day. Osgood said it first: Who says things aren't getting better?

Some weeks ago, I made the mistake of writing James Kilpatrick that Cape Girardeau's humidity was more newsworthy than that of the city in which he now resides Charleston, S.C. Kilpatrick was quick to take issue:

"We are the humidity capital of the universe," he wrote, adding, to document his claim: "Those of us who wear glasses must equip them with battery-operated windshield wipers.... Fishing in the Cooper River is excellent ... because the fish tend to be confused and swim above the water, where they may easily be netted or clobbered with a baseball bat."

No one should try to compete with this master of nonsense. My follow-up effort netted me an Old Charleston Receipt for poaching eggs in "one cubic foot of air." No need to ask for his "receipt" for frying the wilted fish he clobbered with a few more words. I was born under the sign of Pisces a poor fish swimming in two directions at once and now I'm having to laugh to keep from frying. Fried Pisces, anyone?