The Day The Pants Fell: Or, What Is Humor?

Today I decided I would write something humorous.

Bad news, right?


trying to write humorous(ly) when you are writing about what is humorous

is like dropping your baggy pants

at a librarians’ convention.


that was funny.

Or was it?

By which I mean:

someone once wrote,

probably John Cleese,

or maybe it was Joe Biden?

that certain words are just funny.

Like kumquat.

Now that is a funny word.

Or take Hugendubbel.

A bookstore here in Gutenberg Land.

Huggendubbel is funny.

Much funnier than Foyles of London.

Well, maybe not.

Especially if you are thinking of the situation of pants dropping,

one of the classic routines

that has to be done just right.

For example,

a huge pair of droopy drawers dropped for a moment and whisked back up

usually gets a laugh.

I assume with a Speedo the dropper would have to work harder.


dropping it slowly,

back turned,

to give an entire ring of outraged Keystone Cops

and old ladies with umbrellas

time to get into place to cover the action

as the Speedo-ed dropper is surrounded

and whisked off stage.

Then there was the case of the live model –

in a topless bathing suit –

on the Johnny Carson show years ago.

No one mentioned the live model was going to be a monkey.

And male at that.

My uncle stayed up until well after midnight waiting for that one.

And then, of course,

there are the dropped pants

in conversation:

Sorry old dear….pant…just out running….pant…what do you mean you are leaving me….pant.


Nothing compared to “Run For Your Wife,” but still.

And of course, there is the schtick where:

late at night

the woman is digging in her huge handbag,

looking for the house key.

The man impatiently pulls the bag away from her,

and starts rummaging.

A large book,

even better is a set of encyclopedias,

an umbrella, expandable if possible,

a large submarine sandwich,


a rope,

to be pulled and pulled and pulled on

until it becomes a wash line

with an entire line of clothes

from dainty frillies,

to a summer hat,

woman’s dress,



or course,

with the ubiquitous vw beetle sized

knee-length bloomers.

After which,

of course,

no one really needs to hear the final words,

do they,

as the gentleman tips his straw boater and disappears:


from a safe distance,

so your mother lives with you?

This blog was inspired by the Speedo company

dropping an athlete.

copyright 2016

Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s