Stand Up Or Lay Down

Okay

So, Cee Brown, have you ever considered stand-up?

If course I have. I tried it once. Big disaster. Very interesting story.

I was away at camp for a week the summer after sixth grade. It was a wilderness/technology camp. We slept in a log cabin, went for hikes, then had "computer time."

This was before the Internet. All of the computers were the size of wall-unit air conditioners with black screens and green letters. They were loud too. The instructor had to raise his voice to be heard above the electronic hum.

That was the technology part.

There was actually a lot of down time though. And during this time, I took it upon myself to entertain my classmates. By Wednesday, I had developed quite the reputation for being the camp's funnyman.

Our group's counselor was a short, chubby, flamboyantly gay man who insisted we called him Papa Smurf. In retrospect, I'm fairly certain that he may have taken a liberty or two, here and there. Call me a homophobe, but I don't know what kind of man works at a sleep-away camp and tells all the kids to call him Papa Smurf. I mean, come on.

Clearly a homo.

He'd walk into our cabin first thing in the morning, holding his arms at ninety degree angles, limp-wristed with hands dangling, "Good morning, boys. Rise and shiiiiiiiiiiiiiine!"

Anyways. Papa Smurf came to me one day and asked if I wanted to do a stand-up comedy routine at the Camp Finale. Every group had fifteen minutes to perform. He wanted me to open up for our group with a few jokes. With some strong encouragement from the rest of the group, I finally agreed.

I was beyond nervous. Especially when plans changed, making me the headlining act. We were now to open with a skit/practical joke. The assistant counselor was a young guy who didn't talk much. I don't remember his name. But I do remember it seeming like he and Papa Smurf did not get along. Let's call him Jim.

In this skit, Jim was a wise man who could answer any question, but all of his answers were wise cracks. Kid after kid would come to him seeking advice, only to leave the butt of his wicked sense of humor. I was supposed to be the last kid to ask a question, but before he could answer, I was to smack him in the back of the head.

That was the punchline.

Sounded funny at the time, so I agreed. I was more concerned with my routine though. What exactly was I going to talk about? Where was the best place to stand? Was there going to be a microphone? What should I wear?

I was taking it very seriously.

But mind you, I was only eleven.

"Papa Smurf?"

"Yes, honey."

"Am I allowed to curse?"

"Like the 'f' word? I don't think so."

"What about 'nigga'? Can I say 'nigga'?"

"I'm gonna give you some advice that I hope you always remember. If you don't ask for permission, no one will have the chance to tell you no."

Understanding what I understand now, that was some pretty scary shit. I probably should have slept on my back that night. But back then, it was like someone turned the light on for me. It was a real a-ha moment. I've lived by that advice ever since.

The night of The Camp Finale came. I wore my lucky white wool Mickey Mouse boxers. I was as nervous as I have ever been. I had decided that most of my routine was going to be about how gay Papa Smurf was. I thought that would be really funny.

It was time for the Wise Man routine. Things were going well and the other kids were laughing. I thought, Great! They're not a tough crowd. My routine is way funnier than this stupid skit. I'm gonna kill 'em.

It was my turn to talk to the Wise Man. I was brimming with confidence, and I could tell Jim was none the wiser. This was actually going to be pretty funny. I asked him some silly question. He looked up to the sky and stroked his goatee. I cocked my little arm back as far as it could go and socked him. SMACK!!!

Well.

He lept up and pounced on me. Wrapped his big man hands around my neck and started shaking me so hard my brain rattled. I was beginning to lose consciousness when I saw the other group leaders rushing to my aid and pulling Jim off of me.

As it turns out, Jim wasn't too keen on this kind of thing. I overheard him scream, "I don't give a fuck how old he is!!!!"

This little fiasco ended The Camp Finale prematurely, and I was not allowed to do my routine.

So that it is why I do my comedy from the safety of my own home, via the Internet. I get the occasional angry email or the slightly more frequent anonymous judgemental comment, but I have yet to be bitch-choked.


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Postscript: After it was all over and I regained consciousness, Papa Smurf asked me in a whisper, "Why'd you hit him so hard, honey?"