The Jokemaster

The Jokemaster

by Jack Garrett

Sidney Gillmore, a young, up-and-coming stand-up comic, stood above his Holiday Inn bathroom countertop with pen and paper in hand, desperately trying to conjure up joke data for tonight’s performance at Caesar’s Palace. Joke data, a series of randomly selected nouns, verbs, conjunctions, adjectives, and the like, is an integral part of Sidney’s stand-up comic routine. Unlike most stand-up comics, who think up their own jokes, Sidney has a small appliance that he carries from town to town in his suitcase that automatically produces jokes. The machine is called the Jokemaster, and it plugs into any ordinary AC outlet. It is usually placed upon a countertop or table and is the size of any normal kitchen appliance. One distinct trait, however, clearly distinguishes the Jokemaster’s physical appearance from any other small appliance—it bears a strange resemblance to Bob Hope. In fact, one might even think that it was Bob Hope’s head sitting there on the countertop, with a very silly grin sliding sarcastically across its face.

Sidney finally finished scratching out his joke data on the long, thin slip of paper called, appropriately, “joke tape,’ and fed it into a small slot at the top of the Jokemaster’s head—much like a hole in Bob Hope’s head. The paper was then sucked quickly into the machine, and the Jokemaster began shaking about in a frenzy of spasmatic twitches. The Jokemaster’s eyes rolled, its ears wiggled, and then after only a few minutes another slip of paper shot out from the Jokemaster’s mouth with several jokes written in computer lettering. Sidney smiled, tore off the piece of paper, and read one of the jokes: “What do you call a peanut that’s been robbed, beaten, and abused? Assaulted peanut!” Sidney chuckled to himself and thought, “Wow, that’s brilliant! What would I do without my Jokemaster?!” He then read another joke: “What’s brown and sounds like a bell? Dung.” Sidney could barely refrain from cracking up and thought to himself, “Oh boy, I’m gonna get over big tonight. These jokes are gonna kill ‘em.” Just then the Jokemaster spit out another joke. Sidney grabbed it and read: “What’s big, green, hairy, has teeth, and lives in a cave? The Los Angeles Times.” Sidney scratched his head, looked at the Jokemaster, and said, “I don’t get it.” The machine promptly spit out another piece of paper, and it read: “Neither do I—I get the New York Times.” Sidney was quivering with joy.

Sidney began getting dressed for the night’s performance. He selected an orange suit coat with green pants from his suitcase and began rehearsing his joke delivery in the mirror as he dressed. He then parted his slick black hair neatly down the middle, looked at himself in the mirror, and thought, “Here comes success!”

Sidney’s physical features were about as striking as the Jokemaster’s. He wasn’t what you’d call brutally handsome. For one, he was short; two, he was fat; and three, with that green and orange suit he looked somewhat like an overgrown, joke-telling munchkin.

Sidney arrived at Caesar’s Palace promptly at 10:00 p.m. His show started at 10:30, so Sidney stood around backstage for awhile, talking to a joke-telling French horn plater named Waldo Pierson. Waldo had just finished his act, and he told Sidney how he had gotten over really big with some new jokes he had just made up. “Let’s hear a few,” said Sidney. “OK,” said Waldo. “What do you call a peanut that’s been robbed, beaten, and—” “Wait a minute,” screamed Sidney. “That’s my joke—you stole my joke!” “Impossible,” stated Waldo plainly. “I just made it up today.” “The hell you did,” snapped Sidney. “That salesman in Buffalo told me the Jokemaster was guaranteed to produce original jokes.” “Jokemaster?” questioned Waldo. “What’s a Jokemaster?”
A look of sickness came over Sidney’s face. He had let out his secret. He had to think of something quick before Waldo Pierson questioned him futher. “Ah…Ah…Did I say Jokemaster….I meant Postmaster….You know, the mailman?” “Oh yea?” said Waldo. “Yea, the mailman told me that salted peanut joke this morning,” said Sidney. “Odd coincidence,” replied Waldo. “What about Buffalo? You said something about Buffalo, didn’t you?” asked Waldo. “Ah yea…Ah…I said I was really buffaloed by that joke.” “What about that salesman,” said Waldo. “You mentioned a salesman that guaranteed something, didn’t you?” “Ah…Ah, you must have misunderstood me,” said Sidney. “I said…ah…Oh yea, the mailman said that joke is guaranteed to really make a sale, man!” “Hmmm,” said Waldo. “You ever hear of that joke about the New York Times?” Sidney’s face suddenly matched the color of his pants. “He’s been telling all my jokes to the same audience,” he thought to himself. “It can’t be,” he thought again. “It can’t be the same joke.” “Ah yea,” said Sidney after much contemplation. “I heard it but I didn’t get it.” “Neither did I,” said Waldo. “I get the New York Times.”

“Hey, it’s 1030,” said Waldo. “You had better get out there! Knock ‘em dead, kid.”
“Wait…Wait!” said Sidney. “You’ve been telling the jokes I was going to use!” “That’s show biz, kid,” said Waldo. “I gotta run—got a train to catch, ya know?” Waldo Pierson left Sidney standing all alone with no jokes to tell. It was now 10:35, and the audience was beginning to grow restless. Just then, the house manager stormed over to where Sidney stood sweating with fear. “Get out there,” growled the manager. “It’s 10:35—you’re 5 minutes late! Get your ass out there!”

Sidney Gilmore walked peevishly out onto the stage, as the crowd lightly welcomed him. His sweat hands grasped the microphone, his legs shook nervously, he opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. The audience began booing Sidney. “Come on, ya bum. Tell your corny jokes. Do your stuff, kid—c’mon!” they jeered. Sidney’s mind tried everything within its limited power to produce a joke, and finally he had one—or at least he thought he did. “ What do you call a cashew that’s been beaten, robbed, and abused?” Someone in the front row then promptly yelled out, “Assaulted cashew! What a stale joke. I think I’ve heard that before! Har Har Har!” the entire audience booed, and then after a few more feeble attempts in the same vein, the curtain fell on poor Sidney. The stage manager thus fired him promptly on the spot, calling him a variety of expletive deleteds.

Sidney then rushed back to his hotel room where he rummaged through his suitcase, trying to find the manual for the Jokemaster. “There must be something wrong with this damn thing!” he thought to himself.

When he finally found the manual and was fumbling through it, he noticed a small logo on the bottom of page 12 that stated: “Jokemaster, patented 1975 by Waldo Pierson, and the joke’s on you!”

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