Sputterpub's Blog

A month ago I was alone for a bit with my two brothers, and it didn’t take long for us to start joking inappropriately. I don’t know whether it’s called black humor or just weird, but we have been known to laugh hard at ideas offensive to others.

We were in Steve’s truck, waiting while Becky bought coffee. The date was September 11, 2011. The tenth anniversary of the attack on America. You remember: the media was full of the subject, and there were a few of us willing to admit we were tired of it.

I think I get credit for the idea. I blurted from the back seat: “Hey. How about if we build an amusement park at Ground Zero? We can start with a zip line over the area …”

Steve and Andy jumped in. Immediately the truck filled with ideas for costume rental, heroic posterboards with face holes cut out for souvenir photos, ash-ball, and more. Terrible. Horrible. But we laughed till we cried.

It reminded me of the time the kids and I tried to come up with relevant Olympic games. This may have been in 1996, or perhaps ‘92. Someone commented about how dated many of the sports were. Who knew a discus thrower? How many fans were there, really, for Greco-Roman wrestling? We decided to make suggestions.

Our best idea, simple and elegant, was for a game of classic tug-o-war. The competition would be between teams from countries who are currently disagreeing about something, and the pit would be filled with the grossest, slimiest mess of mud and muck we could configure.

From there we elaborated. We came up with ideas for competitions in panhandling, drug dealing, gang building and carjacking.

Danny added a special area where any kind of performance-enhancing (or other) drug would be allowed. Why not? Choosing the right drugs is also a modern skill.

We’re terrible. We have no sense of decorum. These are some of the sentences my family has laid upon itself.

Of course those are hyperbolic. We’re not that bad. We are not malicious and we do not vandalize. But we can appreciate funny when we see it, and we might not be able to control our laughter.

Looking back, we were particularly feisty at weddings. All rituals seemed alien to us, but at weddings Mom was happy, the occasion was joyous, and tolerance was broader.

Dad was our ringleader. Mom never seemed to think things were as humorous as he did. She was more likely to grimace, hush us, or pretend she was actually seated with others.

The first riotous wedding memory I’ll describe was when my cousin S married T. It was around 1970, summertime in Burbank, in my aunt’s back yard. I remember her house was directly below a flight path to the airport; the occasion was overwhelmed at regular intervals by low-flying planes on landing approach.

The ceremony took place toward the rear of the small yard. There were rows of folding chairs facing the fence, and tables laid with food and champagne were set near the house. On the way to our seats Dad decided to be helpful. He untwisted the wires around each champagne cork, so the bubbly would be easily available after the ceremony. Even now I believe his intention was pure.

It was a hot day and the vows went longer than we expected. Shortly before the bride and groom became husband and wife, the champagne started popping. Bottle after bottle released its cork straight into the air. As loud as gunshots.

But the best was yet to come. Several years later a different cousin S married E. This was in San Francisco. The rabbi had a speech impediment. I’m not making this up; the man spoke like Elmer Fudd. He referred to himself as the “wabbi” and to the young couple as “bwide” and “bwidegwoom.” My father and brothers and I exchanged smiles, began to snicker silently, showed eyes shining with tears of suppressed laughter.

We did okay at first. We were pulling it off. Then the wabbi suggested that the couple exchange wedding wings. Starting with Andy and cascading upward with age, we lost it.