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Mayday, Mayday -- Taking it Easy on May Day

Hey, folks. It's the first of the month again, and that means another tour through the wild and wacky world of Zoiks! As usual -- if you can call the last two months or so 'as usual' -- when a new Zoiks! issue hits the e-stands, I take a day off from writing.

But that doesn't mean you lose, dear reader -- oh my, no. See, the way this works out, you get two posts in one. First, I'll post my piece from the previous Zoiks! issue right here, for my comfort and your pleasure. Then, you can check out the latest piece -- plus a half-dozen or so other giggly works by other humoratious types -- over at the Zoiks! website. Two for the price of none -- it's unbelievable!

(Of course, if you're a regular Zoiks! reader, then I guess you're really getting none for the price of none, since you've already read one piece, and you'll see the other one anyway. Hey, I can't please everyone, dammit. Just ask my wife. Sheesh.)

All right, then. Without further ado, let's get this party started. Check out the piece below, and then run on over to Zoiks! for more Sunday entertainment. More fun than the funny pages, and the ink won't rub off on your fingers. Huzzah!

As an aspiring comedian, I find that my life in its current form presents a significant disadvantage. For one thing, I'm married -- and married people aren't nearly as funny as bitter, tortured souls fresh off a nasty, prolonged breakup. I've thought about slowly tormenting my wife until she finally snaps and drags me through a painful divorce -- but so far, it's not working very well. I've only succeeded in driving her to law school. I think she's angling for some sort of post-nuptial agreement. Sneaky girl, she is.

Meanwhile, I'm kidless. Many comics who find themselves hopelessly married will squeeze out a couple of puppies, just for the comedy material. But it's not for me. Don't get me wrong -- I'm as big a fan of potty humor and drool jokes as the next guy. But I'm dealing with limited funds here, and when it comes down to having cash for beer or putting a kidlet through college -- well, it's a pretty easy choice, frankly. And with enough drinking money, I can still pick up some potty and drool material, which is a nice bonus.

Worse than the family situation, though, is the job front. Ideally, a good comic will be unemployed -- not to mention unshaven, unkempt, and as close to destitute as possible. It seems that 'suffering for your art' is downright hilarious, apparently. And while I (and most audience members) have certainly suffered through my 'art', suffering for it hasn't really been an issue.

True, I was between jobs when I decided to try comedy, but I picked up an 'office gig' just before my first onstage gig, and I've been gainfully employed ever since. It's not even a comedically helpful job, like 'traveling salesman' or 'rabbi' or 'Michael Jackson'. It's just a plain, boring old corporate job, where nothing funny ever happens. Last Wednesday, we ran out of 'creamer' in the office kitchen; that's pretty much as giggly as it gets over there. 'The Office', it ain't, folks.

You might think that this situation would garner me a bit of respect. Battling the obstacles above, I've managed to perform at a few dozen shows, and carved out a modest little hobby for myself in standup. But do people appreciate the effort? Do they recognize the struggle? Do they offer mad props? No. No, when friends and neighbors discover that I'm performing comedy, against all odds, they all have the same reaction:

'So, you've got a job, and a wife, and yet you're telling jokes onstage to strangers? Wow. You... you must really have a small penis.'

Now, I don't know about you fellows out there, but when my penis comes up in conversation, I'm always reminded of Abraham Lincoln.

(No, it's not the resemblance -- really. Although I do have a little stovepipe hat that I like to strap on, and... no. It's definitely not the resemblance. Honestly.)

I always think of what Old Abe once said when he was asked how long a man's legs should be. Apparently, it was some matter of debate back in the day whether short, stumpy little legs were better, or long, gangly legs were superior. And, as with any issue of critical national importance, they asked the president.

And you just know that it was a long-legged dude that brought the question to Lincoln. Because Honest Abe was enormous -- something like six feet, six inches.

(That's six-nine, with the afro. And seven-two, with the hat.)

So it was surely a long-legger that posed the length question to him, looking for a little love for the 'home team'. It's like Pam Anderson asking Dolly Parton how she feels about 'A' cups. It's a loaded question.

But old Abe was a diplomat, and he gave a true politician's answer; he said:

'A man's legs should be just long enough to reach the ground.'

You see what he was getting at, right? What he really meant is that -- no matter what part of the anatomy we're talking about -- it's not the 'size' that matters. Nor the 'length'. Nor, for that matter, the 'girth'. Nor the 'horrible burning sensation when you pee'. No, friends, what really matters is whether the equipment in question can get the job done. That's the bottom line.

So the last time someone suggested to me that my comedic aspirations must be the result of a dangly deficiency, I looked them straight in the eye, and I said:

'Small penis? Well, I don't know about that... grandma. But I'll tell you this -- it's just long enough to reach the ground.'

Metaphorically speaking, of course. Still, a metaphorically massive member is about the only advantage I have in this business, and I need all the help I can get,