Comedy ain't so Light (in which Bad Girl explores the other, more serious purpose of humour)

Everyone likes comedy, right?

Wrong.

I’ve written comedy professionally since 1992.  I got my start writing stand-up. In the 1990s, I had a regular humour column in the Toronto region, and I now write humour for The Sage (a Canadian satire magazine.) 

Any seasoned humour writer will tell you that consistently writing comedy is difficult.  What looks easy doesn’t write easy.  The old actor saying, “Dying is easy. Comedy is hard,” stands for writers too.  In books, not only do you have to pay attention to plot, characterization, dialogue, viewpoint, motivation, etc. like every other author, but you also have to add an additional element, comedy.  It’s like there is an addition test for you that others don’t have to pass.  And you don’t get paid any more for doing it.

And it gets worse: Comedy writers take risks that other writers don’t.

For here’s the thing:  comedy is by nature dangerous.  It (often) makes fun of things that other people take seriously.  In fact, it’s almost impossible to write comedy and not offend someone, somewhere.

Even the most seemingly inoffensive broad comedy (the sort of thing I write) will attract criticism.  The Goddaughter is the first in a series of five comic capers from Orca books.  These are meant to be humorous entertainment. Nothing blatantly didactic.  No preaching.  I am hoping for smirks and laughter to lift your mood.

It’s satire.  A loony mob family is chronically inept.  A reluctant mob goddaughter wants to escape the business, but is always pulled back in to bail them out.  What results is a series of whacky capers and heists-gone-bad.

What could be offensive about that?

But ah.  The heroine of the story is a mob goddaughter, even if she doesn’t want to be one.  “You don’t get to choose your relatives,” she says.  I’m writing stories about the mob, in which we are actually compelled to want certain members to succeed in their crazy plans. 

I’ve found that even writing about the mob can invite outrage.  Operating outside the law is bad, even evil, a reader wrote recently. How dare I make light of serious crime? 

Which brings me to the point of this post (get to the point, Mel).  Comedy, done well, has a secondary purpose to making us laugh.  (Some would say primary purpose.)  It has the ability to threaten power.  Throughout history, writers have used comedy to satire and gently (or not so gently) ridicule the people who have power over us.

If we were to limit the ability of authors to write about certain subjects or groups of people in light and humorous ways, we would lose the ability to ‘bring them down to size.’  To show their weaknesses. 

My satire is gentle.  But it is there, all the same.  In my humour columns and books, I poke fun at people and organizations that seek to have power over us.  To maintain that power, they must be taken seriously.

And boy, do they hate comedy writers like me.

The Goddaughter books are sold at Barnes & Noble, Chapters/Indigo, Amazon, independent bookstores, and all the usual suspects. Please buy them, so our Bad Girl can continue to go straight.

The Worst of 'Morticia's Massage Parlour and Advice Academy'

You asked for it - now live with it!  More from Morticia (reprinted with permission)

Get in shape with BODIES BY MORTICIA
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Dear Morticia;
My wife can't go a day without playing bingo.  What's your impression of a woman like that?
Signed Fed Up

Dear Fed;
Sorry, I don't do impressions.  This is an advice column.

Dear Morticia;
My husband works shifts and comes home so tired he can barely carry on a conversation.  How can I keep him from falling asleep on me?
Signed, Frustrated

Dear Frust;
Push him off.  Next...

Dear Morticia;
Are you busy this weekend?  Party at my house - I finally got rid of my parents!
Signed, Home Alone

Dear Home;
That's nice.  Did you manage to make it look like an accident?

Dear Morticia;
My mother and I read your advice column every month and we are appalled by the ridiculous advice you give.  In fact, we can't believe you actually get paid to produce this kind of trashy garbage on a regular basis.
Signed Disgusted in Durham

Dear Gus;
Wait a sec...you mean they're supposed to pay ME?

Morticia will return to these pages if somebody doesn't kill her off first.

Melodie Campbell writes funny books. Please buy them, so she can spend her time writing more silly comedy.

CHARIOTS OF THE GUYS (More car humour...reprinted with permission from the places that pay me)

(Genuine photo of the car that Dave bought.  The family car.)

One of the things I hate even more than high school reunions is buying a new car.  It’s not that I don’t like cars.  I am really quite fond of them. Especially in winter.  What I don’t like is the buying process.  There is something inherently different about men and women when they go looking at cars in a dealership.  You even have to wonder if they are members of the same species.

Husband (reverently caressing cold metal with both hands):  “Look at this beauty!  4.0 litre, five speed, Recarro seats, mag wheels, racing suspension, electric moon roof, power mulcher, moog synthesizer, ballistic missile launcher…”

Wife:  “It’s red.  I hate red.”

This basic lack of communication goes right back to the way men and women look at ‘things’.  Amazingly, they can be looking at the same thing and see something entirely different. 

Men, for instance, will look at a car as if it something beyond a box with four wheels that moves forward and backward.  To them, it is not merely a car.  Nope.  It is the culmination of adolescent dreams, the elusive mistress of middle age, the Ben Hur of all chariots.  Me, I’m more concerned with whether it will get me to the shopping mall and back without falling into a million pieces.  Which is why we had this misunderstanding at the dealership last weekend:

Me:  “This car has two seats.”

He (enthusiastically checking the interior):  “Yes!  Aren’t they great?”

Me:  “I’m not denying they are very nice seats.  Beautiful, in fact.  But there are four of us.”

He (looking irritably at the kids):  “They’re young.  They’ve got legs.”

Kid One:  “But Dad…where are we all going to sit when we have to drive someplace?”

He (aghast):  Good Gad, you’re not actually expect me to drive this car on the road?  The paint might get chipped.”

Then he did what all men have been programmed to do from the beginning of time.  He kicked the tire.  I’ve often wondered about this practice.  And I expect Ben Hur’s wife pondered the very same thing two thousand year ago, when good ole Ben whacked the wheel of that Roman chariot with his leather sandal.  Exactly what purpose does this serve?

I’ll never understand it.  But as far as I can see, all of this started about forty thousand years ago when Urgh the slightly-brighter-than-normal Neanderthal invented the wheel.  Irma, his loyal wife, stood on the sidelines shaking her head, while Urgh enthusiastically painted on racing stripes.  “Argh urf org grunt bfff bfff,” she said (loosely translated to, “Oh dinosaur droppings, not another blasted toy.  When will this ever end.”)  And of course, it hasn’t yet.

Tales from North of Fifty by Bad Girl

We tried to have a dinner party a while back.  Years ago, this wouldn’t have been a big thing.  I love cooking. (I love eating even more, which should be obvious.)  We have a decent size dining room with enough chairs.  And we actually like the people we were going to invite (itself, a great

accomplishment.)

So we went ahead and invited the people (step 1.)  Next we had to come up with a menu (step 2.)  And that’s when the trouble started.

If you are not over 50, perhaps you haven’t experienced this yet (she chortled fiendishly.)

“We have a few culinary restrictions from our guests,” I said to DH.  “I hope we can serve more than water and a toothpick.”

“What requests?” said DH.

I looked down at the list. “Nothing with gluten or beans.”

“Beans?”

“Cathy requested that.  Because of Phil and his proximity to the other guests.”

“Gotcha.” DH shivered.

“No cilantro, peppers or fresh garlic.  Nancy is sensitive,” I said.

“How about your famous lasagne?” said DH, with hunger in his eyes.

“No good.  Both Lainy and Bob are lactose intolerant.”

“Rib eye steaks?” he said.  “I can do them on the barbie.”

“Tim has to watch his cholesterol.  So do you,” I reminded.

“BBQ chicken then.  With a nice bourbon sauce.”

“Tiffany is a vegetarian,” I reminded.

“We can throw some shrimp on the barbie for her,” said DH, in a generous mood.

“Vern is allergic to seafood.  It couldn’t be the same barbeque.”

 “Running out of ideas, Babe,” said DH. 

A pause.  “Peanut butter?”

I shook my head.  “Marilyn.  Allergic.”

“Oatmeal!  We could have Haggis.”

“Not in my lifetime.”

Silence.  We stared at each other.

“Pea soup?” he said, in desperation.

The phone rang.  I ran to get it.

I came back to the kitchen.  “Barb just phoned.  Phil has a colonoscopy scheduled for Monday, so he can only have clear liquids.”

“Back to water and a toothpick,” I said.

“That’s pretty cheap,” said my Scottish husband, gleefully.

ROAD WARRIOR! (probably my most popular stand-up routine from the early days)

This post was my single most popular humour column/stand-up routine (with appropriate gestures) back in the days when I wrote under Funny Girl.

(With apologies to gorillas.)

Who needs a telephone booth?  My guy can step into any car and become:  ROAD WARRIOR!

There must be a primitive instinct that overcomes a male each time he gets behind the wheel of a car, and which also makes him forget that he actually got beyond the evolutionary stage of the giant African gorilla. 

Because every day, millions of men the world over climb into their twenty-first century chariots of steel to hear a voice from the heavens proclaim, “Gentlemen, start your engines!”  At which point all lads who possess a scrap of testosterone drop into first, stomp on the gas and lay a trail of smoking rubber in an attempt to beat the other blokes away from the lights.

I can remember traveling in my guy’s car down Gerrard street one day, when a red Camaro, which was traveling about two miles an hour faster than we were, pulled up beside us and tried to pass.  Whereupon, the man I promised to love and honour until death do us part – or at least until the next tax year – stepped on the gas and roared up the street doing a wheelie, in case, of course, the Camaro might just DARE to cut in front. 

The driver of the red Camaro, not wishing to appear shortchanged on his giant gorilla genes, immediately dashed up alongside, and proceeded to make extremely rude hand gestures while shifting gears and controlling a skid, all at the same time.

The two cars jerked their way down Gerrard, both drivers screaming at each other through closed windows, until my own true love slammed on the brakes, effectively blocking two lanes of traffic and the entire Jarvis Street intersection.  He then got out of the car.

Now the occupants of the Camaro were the sort of people one would expect to see driving a red Camaro down Gerrard: guys with names like Carlos and Guido, whose idea of a fun Saturday night is counting the notches on their machine guns.  And if I hadn’t started screaming and fainting in the manner of Fay Wray with King Kong (another gorilla) we would probably all still be there; my guy standing out in the middle of the intersection flailing his arms, ready to “teach them a lesson.”

What was he going to do? Kick their tires?

Of course, we females don’t participate in ridiculous behavior like this. We’re far too busy shopping for things we don’t need.

My Short Conversation with God re Ascending into Middle Age - comedy reprinted from the places that pay me

Okay, I admit it.  I’m middle-aged.  Such a nice, bland term for reaching the middle years of your lifespan. 

   

But it’s a lie. Because that would assume that I am going to live to be over 100...well over 100...

But grant me the illusion.  Middle-aged.  Middle-income.  Middle-expanding….

It’s time I had a talk with the Big Boss.  A very short conversation, as it happened.

Me:  God Sir, I have a complaint.  I’m over 50 now, and while it’s really nice not to have to deal with all that baby-making crap, what the hell is happening to my body? These weren’t the boobs I came in on.  What’s that all about?

Voiceover:  My child, I needed to invent gravity to keep you all on earth and not floating up to heaven before your time.  What starts UP must come down.  So I give you this – gravity isn’t a law in heaven.  You get the originals back when you pass through the pearly gates.

Me:  Oh dear.  You haven’t been paying very close attention to my life lately, have you… So here’s the thing.  Do I get them back if I go the other way?  

Voiceover:  My child, how can you even think of asking such a thing?

Me: It’s all those college science classes.  If gravity pulls things DOWN on earth, does it pull things UP from Hell?  Just so I know my options, you see…

Voiceover:  I’m thinking your options are closing down quickly.

Me:  I’m thinking I’m talking to the wrong Big Guy.

And just because this is an equal opportunity column, I’m suggesting that all you guys out there might want to go to Hell.  Not just because I’ll probably be there.  But if gravity indeed pulls UP…