Jokee's Revenge

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Old gags find new life. . . unfortunately.

As I watched a dust cloud chasing a raggedy pickup from a long way down the road, I felt an internal response. Clutch. That's his name. That's also what my belly does every time he shows up.

Clutch is one of those guys who insists on telling you a joke before he even says hi. And if, heaven forbid, you have one to tell him, you'll find yourself playing king of the mountain with a humor bully. I hate being cast in the role of jokee to a self-appointed joker.

Anyhow, a person's got to be neighborly, so I slouched on down to Clutch's truck as he crunched to a stop in front of my barn.

"Hey, Clutch," I called out, bracing myself for his opening salvo.

Instead, he just eased himself out of the pickup, propped his elbows on the hood of his truck and sighed deeply. No joke. No chatter. He was in a strange mood.

"Alva, can I just set behind your barn for a spell?" Clutch asked, staring at my corral as though he had never seen our mare, Pachooky, before.

We all know that every man needs the backside of a barn from time to time. Where else can you go for a quiet sit where weeds grow through old hay rakes and tangle with foggy memories of your first kiss, your first smoke? You can't refuse such a heartrending plea from your fellow man. But why couldn't he just use his own barn?

"You know, since we sold the 80 acres behind our barn to the shopping mall," Clutch answered my unspoken question, "I've lost my sanctuary. Now everyone who runs in to pick up a pair of pantyhose can look right into my personal space. I feel exposed. On top of that, my wife wants me to clear out all the good junk back there and plant flowers. I got no space left."

"Well, you just make yourself at home," I offered.

"Thanks, Alva," Clutch muttered, "but I have another favor to ask."

"What's that?"

"Can I dump my computer back there?"

"Sure," I replied. "What's one more piece of junk? Didn't you just buy it a while back?"

"It's making me depressed," Clutch replied.

"How's that?",

"It's those darn e-mail jokes," Clutch explained as we each grabbed a hunk of hardware and headed for my sanctuary. "Everyone who can forward a canned piece of humor thinks he's a comedian: 'Hey, look at me. I never can remember a joke but now I can be funny, too.' Amateurs!"

"Some folks have no sense of proportion when it comes to humor," I offered.