How To Write Hilarious Humor: An Analysis of Professional Comedians' (and Comediennes') Techniques to Tickle the Funny Bone

Copyright 2011 by Gary L. Pullman

Chapter 6: Fame, Fortune, Golf, and Television

In “Future Reality Shows,” Radner departs a bit from what had, before now, become her standard approach to developing her book’s humor. Instead of using an opening paragraph to establish a basic situation as an excuse to introduce absurd examples, gags, and jokes concerning an aspect of her book’s central concept, or theme, of aging, the author summarizes the premises of several non-existent television game shows. The descriptions of the shows’ premises poke fun at the absurdities of actual television shows of this genre. Each of the imaginary shows requires participants to do something ridiculous and, usually, dangerous to have a chance to win “a million” (or, in one case, “a schmillion”) dollars. One premise indicates the approach:

Who Wants to Marry a Serial Killer?

Serial killers fall in love, too. Six lucky women get to spend time with a hardened criminal on death row . . . but only one of them gets to marry him, have sex with him, and be present for his execution. You win a million dollars.

This chapter ends with a television show’s title, which takes the form of a rhetorical question, to which Radner provides her narrator’s answer:

Who Wants to Smash Their High-Definition Flat-Screen Television Set?

I do. Keep your million dollars.

The implication is that it is worth a million dollars to Radner to smash her own television set if doing so rids her of such fare as the premises to her imaginary game shows suggest fill the airwaves.

The use of oddball logic structures Radner’s chapter concerning golf (“A Hole in Eight”). In this chapter, after contributing a stunningly funny comparison (“the thought of me holding a golf club was as likely as Eleanor Roosevelt wiring a bikini”), the author shares her ideas as to how to enjoy a game of golf. Her logic is as impeccable, in its own way, as it is unconventional. Her strategy consists of four interrelated practices (or non-practices): don’t entertain high expectations; don’t purchase expensive, quality equipment; don’t practice the sport; and don’t take lessons. By adopting these approaches to playing golf, one eliminates stress and, in fact, enhances the enjoyment of the sport, she argues, for one is “thrilled” if play goes better than anticipated and, at the same time, one has is under no pressure to perform to a high standard--or, indeed, to any standard at all. As Radner’s narrator puts it, “If I hit a good shot, I’m thrilled, and if I don’t . . . well, what do I care? It’s not like I practiced.” She offers similar wrongheaded, but surprisingly sagacious, advice concerning the taking of golf lessons:

Never take a lesson. Just position yourself next to someone who is taking a lesson. This way, if you become worse, you can forget what you overheard, and if you become better, you have had free instruction.

In the “conclusion” to her chapter, Radner’s narrator suggests a theme, or a message, as it were, in the madness of her oddball logic. Her madcap procedures work for her, because, although she may be “out of touch with reality,” she is, nevertheless, “having a good time,” and having a “good time,” she implies, is more important than playing a golf game well.

Occasionally, a comedian or a comedienne can get away with an essentially serious monologue, spoken more from his or her own mouth, as it were, than from that of his or her book’s narrator. Radner accomplishes this--and well--in “At What Price?,” a chapter concerning the instant celebrity to which Andy Warhol referred when he predicted that, given the media’s incessant need for material, “In the future, everyone will be famous for fifteen minutes,” exemplifying the hidden personal costs, including invasions of privacy and actual physical danger, that being famous entails and the way in which almost anyone can become “famous”--for a while and for a time, at least--in contemporary America, as Paris Hilton did when her infamous sex tape was leaked over the Internet or as can those “who can stand on a post for hours while holding a dead fish in their mouths.” The theme of this chapter seems to be the lesson that Radner intends to teach her daughter, Molly: “Fame should be a by-product (and not necessarily a good one) of achieving something extraordinary.” She concludes the chapter with a twist on Franklin Delano Roosevelt’s famous saying, “The only thing we have to fear is fear itself”: “The only thing we have to fear is fame for fame’s sake.”

Radner gets away with being serious for a moment as a comedienne because she herself is famous (and, as such, may have a thing or two to teach others about the “cost” of celebrity) and because she writes well. However, in a humorous book, even a talented professional jokester can’t expect to get away with being serious very often, and Radner, of course, reverts to form--sort of-- in her next chapter, “CNNNMSNBCCNBCFOXNEWSNETWORKHEADLINENEWSLOCALANDNATIONALNEWS.” Its premise? “There are too many news outlets and not enough news to go around.” As a result, she contends, she hears the same news repeated at night that she has already heard the same morning, with the only real difference that it is now “stretched over twenty-two minutes plus commercials.” She offers an amusing, perhaps telling, observation concerning a parallel between the news itself and one of the products that sponsors it: “I’ve . . . noticed that the commercials on the evening newscasts are predominantly stomach-related. The news is so upsetting, drug companies have figured out a way to profit from it.” The claim that there is a cause-and-effect relationship between disparate incidents or situations is a favorite technique for prompting laughs, and one which tends to be funny whether the relationship is implied, as it is here, or directly stated, as it would have been if Radner had written, ““I’ve . . . noticed that the commercials on the evening newscasts are predominantly stomach-related because the news is so upsetting that it turns viewers’ stomachs, and drug companies have figured out a way to profit from it.”

Radner--or her narrator--offers a couple of brief examples of how news anchors are reduced to creating, rather than reporting, news stories and responds to Katie Couric’s plea to her audience to “send me a story you’d like to see on the news,” assuring viewers she’d “like to hear it,” with, “Well, I wouldn’t. Maybe that’s just me, but I like my news to be newsworthy.”

Having set up her chapter’s topic, television news, Radner follows up by offering an example of the mundane “news” that would result if she were to take Couric at her word and send in an item that her narrator felt was newsworthy; explains why she finds news crawlers (“the additional information located at the bottom of the screen”) helpful, because they add something new, if not actual news, to the newscasts; explains why she enjoys watching televised murder trials (they extend her treadmill exercise time); critiques the appearance of female newscasters (they all resemble fashion models); and criticizes the inundation of newscasts with flash, colorful graphics--all annoyances with which ordinary members of America’s television audience can relate.

In the process, Radner includes several techniques for producing laughter that are common to professional comedians and comediennes, some of which have been mentioned already, such as:

• Run-on text: the title of this chapter runs together the acronyms and titles of several network news shows and the two categories of news programs, local and national, suggesting that these shows and categories have merged into one, more-or-less continuous and identical body of programmed material
• Absurd, but amusing, anecdotes or examples that illustrate her sometimes-serious, sometimes-humorous claims and observations
• A seemingly absurd, but nevertheless appropriate, comparison between disparate items: repeatedly reciting the same news while making it seem as if it is being read for the first time and Madonna’s attempt to affect virginity (“Reporting the exact same stories over and over and trying to keep them sounding as if it is the first time they’re being read has to be harder than Madonna trying to pretend she’s a virgin”) and the appearance of female newscasters as an effect of a cause which she associates with an historical event (“I love Judy Woodruff and Lesley Stahl, but I think the last time they ate something the Beatles were on Ed Sullivan”)
• The use of something for an unintended, but practical, purpose: watching the news is an adjunct to her exercise routine
• Humorous rhetorical questions: do judges’ refusals to televise certain criminal trials suggest that “they do not care about the state of my inner thighs? Have they no conception of the benefits to my buttocks?”
• Absurd solutions to unusual problems: One such solution is suggested by a hypothetical action on her narrator’s part: “If I sent pictures of me before the O. J. trial and then after,” the judges who refuse to televise trials “might reconsider” their decisions, she suggests, and, thereby, allow the broadcast of these programs, which she uses as adjuncts to her exercise routines. She also has an idea as to how to remedy the broadcasts of made-up news: instead of overusing the “Breaking News” graphic, “how about a ‘Made-Up News’ graphic?”
• Cause-and-effect relationships of a spurious, but amusing, nature: “The more attractive a woman reporter is on CNN, the more time she gets to spend indoors. If you’re forty and have a double chin, chances are you’re filming your report wearing a parka and freezing on the White House lawn or wearing a flak jacket down in a spider hole in Iraq”
• Exaggeration: “‘Breaking News’ is a graphic that is currently being overused on television to command our attention. The last time I saw it flashed on my TV screen it turned out that someone in a kitchen in Iowa had broken something”
• Absurd counterexamples (headlines, in this case, that would suggest actual, rather than made-up news--if they were, indeed, true--and would, therefore, command attention): “‘Hi, this is Katherine McKennedy and here are today’s headlines. . . . Tony Danza announces he is running for president of the United States . . . . Bill gates goes bankrupt . . . and Osama Bin laden marries Jennifer Lopez in a drive-through chapel in Vegas.”

Conclusion

Over a period of three chapters, Radner demonstrates how a topic can be given extended treatment when the material that supports it is broad enough. Television provides sufficient fodder, and Radner, employing a variety of humorous techniques, criticizes game show premises and television news, breaking up the topic with the inclusion, between the chapter concerning game shows and news programs, a chapter that deals with golf, a sport that enjoys widespread popularity, and fame which, whether it is deserved or undeserved, comes with a “cost.” In each case, her targets are, as usual, both familiar and popular, but are also sources of aggravation and annoyance for both those who participate in them or those who merely observe others who participate in them. In these chapters, Radner has employed many of the same techniques that she has already used to effect humor, but she also demonstrates the use of several as-yet-unseen methods for amusing readers, including run-on text; unintended (but practical) uses of products or services; absurd solutions to problems, real or imagined; dubious cause-and-effect relationships between disparate incidents or situations; and absurd counterexamples. The chapter concerning the cost of fame shows that a comedian or a comedienne can occasionally get away with being serious (for a moment), provided that, the rest of the time, he or she is funny and provided that, in being serious for a moment, he or she writes well.

How To Write Hilarious Humor: An Analysis of Professional Comedians' (and Comediennes') Techniques to Tickle the Funny Bone

Copyright 2011 by Gary L. Pullman

Chapter 5: Juvenalian Satire

Another arrow in the humorist’s quiver is Juvenalian satire. Such satire is mild, as opposed to harsh or bitter Horatian satire. Historically, Juvenalian satire’s intent was corrective, aiming at diagnosing an annoying or offensive defect in the personality or an annoying habit that, once brought to the offender’s attention, might be fairly easily remedied, as by repressing the annoying personality trait or suppressing the offensive conduct. On the other hand, Horatian satire’s purpose was to identify obnoxious characteristics or behavior that required more serious or prolonged attention, such as social ostracism.

In “Go Ahead, Open This Bag,” using the Juvenalian approach, Radner exposes her father’s--or a caricature of her father’s--vanity concerning his manliness. Despite--or, perhaps, because of--his age, the narrator’s father, a “seventy-eight-year-old man,” is loathe to ask for assistance from either younger individuals or members of the opposite sex, especially in the performing of so simple a task as opening a bag of peanuts that flight attendants have distributed to the passengers aboard an airplane trip from Miami to Las Vegas.

Until now, Radner has presented her chapters’ set-up situations in short expository paragraphs. In this chapter, she introduces the setup through a series of humorous exchanges of dialogue between father and daughter. The father has flown from his hometown to visit the narrator, and after exchanging “the two-minute father-daughter hug” they’ve “perfected through the years,” the narrator asks her father what he means by his cryptic greeting, “I thought I could do it. Turned out I was mistaken.” Her question sets up the exchange of dialogue in which the reader sees the father’s pride concerning his manliness, which has remained intact despite his advanced age. It is this pride, or vanity, that is subjected to the mild attack of Juvenalian satire throughout the remainder of the chapter.

Unable to open the bag of peanuts the flight attendant has provided, he first blames the bag, rather than himself, for his inability to open the package, suggesting that the bag might have been somehow defective:

“Didn’t the bag have a perforation on one side? Usually, if you look carefully, there’s a perforation."

“I checked. There was no perforation. Possibly, it was a defective bag. I don’t know, I didn’t check other people’s.”

When his daughter asks, “Why didn’t you ask for help?,” the father’s vanity surfaces through his responses:

“I’m a seventy-eight-year-old, two-hundred-pound man. What do you want me to say to the thirty-two-year-old, one-hundred-and-fifteen pound female flight attendant? ‘Will you open this bag of peanuts for me?’ Why don’t I just put on a dress and be done with it?”

“How about the person sitting next to you?”

“I wish you hadn’t asked. She was an eighty-year-old ninety-pounder.”

“And she opened the bag with no problems?”

“She struggled. She finally stabbed it with a fork over Denver.”

The reference to “Denver” is a non-sequitur; the context in which it appears--the stabbing of a bag, as if it were a murder victim who is wounded during a struggle--is both surprising and ridiculous, earning a laugh from the reader.

The next exchange of dialogue further reveals the father’s pride--and his wounded dignity:

“Why didn’t you stab it once you saw there was a way in?”

“Because I shouldn’t have to. I’ve raised a daughter, I’ve been a lawyer. Last year, when the last full-service island closed downtown, I even learned how to pump my own gas. I should be able to open a bag of nuts.”

It is absurd for a man of such accomplishments--a father, a lawyer, and a man who has managed to adapt to changes in technology--to feel that his manhood and his dignity are threatened by his difficulty in performing such a mundane task as opening a bag of peanuts, but, of course, many times, people’s sense of self-worth is threatened by just such ludicrous situations, so, once again, Radner taps a universal experience among her readers, the humorous way in which she depicts a fictionalized version of such an experience lessening the embarrassment and the humiliation that such situations may have caused them by deflecting it onto a surrogate, or stand-in, for them, by showing them how ridiculous both the situation itself and the father’s reactions to it are.

Conclusion

In this chapter, Radner has, once again, selected an everyday situation--an airplane flight--and familiar psychological and social states of affairs--a man’s anxiety about the effects of aging upon his masculinity and his sense of dignity as a man and his refusal to accept the help of others--to set up her comedy. In the process, using mild Juvenalian satire, she criticizes the foolishness of the behavior (the father’s refusal to seek or accept the assistance of others) that results from these anxieties. Her techniques also include humorous dialogue, through which she discloses the story’s conflict while characterizing both her narrator and her narrator’s father; comedic repetition through which a series of jokes are included, all concerning the same topic and situation; and personification that comprises a logical non-sequitur(the bag is characterized as if it is a person).

How To Write Hilarious Humor: An Analysis of Professional Comedians' (and Comediennes') Techniques to Tickle the Funny Bone

Chapter 4: “Kiss ‘Em, Kick ‘Em, and Kiss ‘Em,” Climactic Sequences, and Tone

Copyright 2011 by Gary L. Pullman

If, as a humorist, you’re going to trash someone--a friend (or future former friend) or a family member (before he or she has disowned you forever), perhaps--you don’t want to look, to your reader, like the shark that you are. You want to look like a nice guy or gal. How do you accomplish this miraculous feat?

In trashing her deceased mother, in the “Oh, Mother!” chapter of her book, Radner faced this very problem. Her solution? Prior to the trashing, say some nice things about her target. Use the “kiss ‘em, kick ‘em, kiss ‘em” strategy, wherein one lauds the soon-to-be butt of one’s jokes, then savages him or her, and then again praises the poor soul. Radner devotes two, albeit admittedly short, paragraphs to praising her mother:

It’s my contention that the things you remember about your childhood govern the way you raise your own children. Even though my other died when I was thirteen, I find myself constantly remembering the little things she did for me as I spend time with my daughter.

Kindness was my mother’s finest attribute; cooking was her downfall. Luckily, I was not a picky eater. Most of the things she cooked for me I found delicious.

Her chapter’s title, “Oh, Mother!,” by the way, is a play on words, recalling the exasperated cry, “Oh, brother!,” and sets the tone of the chapter--the narrator’s expression, mild and humorous, though it may be, of her exasperation with her mother’s lack of cooking “talent.”

Now that Radner has set up the chapter’s basic situation, she, through her narrator, presents the standard humorous examples to support and develop the chapter’s topic (her mother’s abominable cooking):

. . . Her most successful culinary creation (and my all-time favorite) was spaghetti mixed with ketchup and a semi-melted lump of butter. My second favorite was what I called Campbelled rice. This paired instant rice with Campbell’s Vegetarian Vegetable soup. Not only was it delicious, it was also educational (if not entirely sanitary), as I would spell out different words on the kitchen table with the gummy letters.

A technique for creating humor, seen in this paragraph, as previously in Radner’s book, is to mix categories, such as cuisine and education. The unlikely pairing is not only surprising, but amusing, for it brings together a ludicrous association that, despite its absurdity, nevertheless, in some way, seems to make sense. Radner’s use of this technique also taps into the familiar, because many adults are likely to remember playing with alphabet-shaped rice or pasta letters in their soup, just as Radner describes herself, as a girl, of having done. Absurdity mixes with familiarity to get a laugh. She then extends the humor by describing how her mother extended any leftovers from this meal to create another dish, employing, once again, a strange mixture of two disparate items, “soup,” a serving of food, and “Spackle,” a sealing compound used in construction:

If there was any Campbelled rice left the next day, the mixture would be poured into tomato soup, thus creating yet another unique variation: Campbelled tomato rice paste. It was midway between soup and Spackle.

Radner’s next paragraph begins with a list of items in a series which have no apparent relationship to one another. However, a link between these disparate items is formed by Radner’s identification of them as her “mother’s three most spectacular failures”: “My mother’s three most spectacular failures involved a can or corn, a duck, and matzo balls.” Having created a Lucy Ricardo-like caricature of her mother as an inept cook and having cited a couple of previous examples of her mother’s culinary incompetence, Radner has interested her readers in learning more about the poor woman’s “culinary failures.” Because of the nature of comedy, in which humorous anecdotes or jokes move steadily toward a crescendo, or climax, of mirth, readers also expect that the quips and gags will be funnier than the previous ones were, although these newer ones will be topped, in turn, by even funnier ones, until, at last, the climax of the series is reached.

Sure enough, Radner’s mother doesn’t disappoint, for she next turns a can of corn into a bomb; cooks inedible, rubbery matzo balls; and reduces the duck, which she seeks to cook as if it is chicken, to an unrecognizable, gelatinous mass that even the daughter, who is “not a picky eater,” refuses to sample, in any form (whether as a roast duck, a salad ingredient, or a sandwich filler). In detailing these “culinary failures,” Radner spices her descriptions with more than a dash of hyperbole:

I don’t know what prompted her to put a closed can of Niblets into the searing oven; I just remember the explosion. . . . I was in charge of picking bits of corn off the floor while she climbed the ladder and tackled the ceiling.

[Trying to consume the matzo balls] was like eating dried Silly Putty. We were fearful of breaking the garbage disposal, so the leaden bits of dough were finally tossed in the trash. . . .

I remember her taking the duck [that the narrator’s mother had prepared as she’d supposed a chicken should be cooked] out of the oven and encountering a sea of grease that in my brief life I had never seen emanate from a chicken. It was so slimy that as my mother served it, the poor bird almost slid off the plate.

Having “kicked” her mother--or a caricature of her mother--Radner now has her narrator “kiss” her again, as the chapter comes to a close, in a paragraph which, for humorous books, is unusually long, and which is followed by a shorter, final paragraph that rounds out the chapter. The longer paragraph begins, “Along with my mother’s lack of cooking talent, I also remember her remarkable personality. I remember the light in her eyes whenever she saw me. I remember her kind voice and her forgiving, patient nature. . . .”

Conclusion

Sometimes, a humorist may savage a friend or family member--or, actually, a caricature of such a person. To prevent alienating him- or herself from the reader, the humorist should adopt the “kick ‘em, kiss ‘em, kiss ‘em” strategy of first praising the victim-to-be, before verbally assaulting him or her with outlandish exaggerations of a defect, real or imagined, and then, once again, lauding the savaged party before concluding the chapter with a short, often single-sentence expression of appreciation for his or her overwhelmingly positive personality traits and behavior patterns, such as Radner does in the closure to her “Oh, Mother!” chapter: “Cooking aside, I only hope I’m half as good a mother to my daughter as my mother was to me.” This concluding comment will leave readers with an “awwwwwww” reaction, rather than a feeling of disdain for someone who would savage a friend or family member (even a caricaturized version) simply to get a laugh. In this chapter, Radner uses several devices she’s used before, including exaggeration, or hyperbole; ludicrous examples; conflated, absurd comparisons; and climactic sequences in which lesser jokes and gags are followed by greater jokes and gags. Her title, “Oh, Mother!,” is a play on words, recalling the exasperated cry, “Oh, brother!,” and sets the tone of the chapter--the narrator’s expression, mild and humorous, though it may be, of her exasperation with her mother’s lack of cooking “talent.”

Next: Chapter 5: Juvenalian Satire

How To Write Hilarious Humor: An Analysis of Professional Comedians' (and Comediennes') Techniques to Tickle the Funny Bone

Chapter 3: Metaphor, Hyperbole, Situational Humor

Like many chapters (and, sometimes, entire books), the chapter called “Catalogue Addiction” is based upon a metaphor which, as the title suggests, equates catalogue shopping with an addiction of some kind, probably one related to drugs or alcohol. The metaphor is extended with references to “treatment centers,” “a group of women with similar problems,” interventions, stashing catalogues as an addict stashes caches of drugs or alcohol, and “recovery.” However, as the need arises, for the sake of humor, the metaphor is occasionally abandoned in favor of the use of humorous techniques that are not related to or dependent upon the trope. For example, a shopping catalogue is personified as a stalker: “the company’s first final clearance catalogue made its way into my clutches three houses ago. It doesn’t matter how often I move; the catalogue knows where I’m living.” Likewise, a Victoria’s Secret catalogue is compared not to drugs but to “pornography,” as the addiction to the former becomes, as it were, an addiction to the latter. Exaggeration is used as well: the models in the Victoria’s Secret catalogue are endowed with such large breasts that their “bosoms” prevent the narrator from closing the publication: “The bosoms on the otherwise skinny women appear to be inflated. The last issue was so chock-full of overly endowed ladies, I couldn’t even keep the magazine closed.” Likewise, Radner employs hyperbole when she describes the mailman as having developed a hernia from delivering the many weighty catalogues that the narrator, like the other women in her neighborhood, receives on a regular basis.

In “Do It Again,” Radner’s humor comes not so much from a series of setups and punch lines or extended metaphors as from a familiar situation carried to extremes. The situation is continuous, from the beginning to the end of the chapter and is, as such, also the chapter’s main source of unity. As always, the opening paragraph establishes the situation in a few short sentences:

Because I was a child such a very long time ago and my contact with children until I had my own was so limited, I was entirely unaware of a child’s capacity for repetition.

Examples of the child, Molly’s, “capacity for repetition” follow, each of which will be likely to strike a familiar chord in reader‘s own experiences. First, a couple of shorter examples are supplied: the game of hide-and-seek, in which Molly continues to hide in the same place each time the game is played--or replayed--and her begging her mother to be carried upside down to the bathroom for her bath, just “one more time,” Then, a third, extended example fills out the rest of the chapter, humanizing the narrator as a mother who loves her daughter. At play at the beach, Molly finds a new way to hide. When the narrator fetches a seashell for her daughter, Molly hides behind her, turning as the narrator turns, so that the mother cannot see her. As a result, the mother is distraught, imagining that Molly might have wandered into the sea or been spirited away by an abductor. When the narrator finally discovers her daughter, the girl asks her mother whether she was “really scared,” and, when her mother confesses that, having imagined her daughter to be lost, she “really” was frightened, Molly, delighted, begs, “Let’s do it again,” her request providing the words of the chapter’s title and thereby bringing the chapter to a full circle.

Conclusion

A chapter’s humor can largely derive from the use of an extended metaphor or a familiar situation. However, as the need arises, either structural device is apt to alternate with other, secondary techniques for producing humor, such as personification, exaggeration, or repetition, with a line or a phrase of dialogue at the end of the chapter repeating the chapter’s title so as to bring the chapter full circle as the section of the book comes to a fitting close.

How To Write Hilarious Humor: An Analysis of Professional Comedians' (and Comediennes') Techniques to Tickle the Funny Bone

Chapter 2: Introductions, Set-Ups and Punch lines, Transitions as Loose Associations, Metaphors, Similes, Allusions, Malapropisms, and Other Techniques

Copyright 2011 by Gary L. Pullman

 

Typically, since it sets up the theme, or central concept, of the entire book, the initial paragraph of the opening chapter is one of the longest in a humorous tome. Radner’s opening paragraph is no exception. Her book’s theme is aging, or “about a woman turning fifty,” which she describes as “traumatic,” so much so, in fact, that her turning this age reduced her to stuttering whenever she tried to utter the word. One of the first laughs comes when she admits that “I still stutter a bit, even in print,” which conflates eye dialect (“fffiffffty”) with the result of a speech disorder (stuttering). The equation of two disparate categories is both surprising and amusing (except, perhaps, to those who stutter or who have stuttered). Oddly appropriate, but seemingly altogether unrelated comparisons, whether direct or indirect, in the form of metaphors or similes, are often amusing, and many comedians and comediennes use this technique to get a laugh.

Another humorous technique is the making of a straightforward claim or observation, followed by a punch line. Sometimes, the punch line is absurd and anticlimactic. In her book’s opening introduction, Radner uses this technique in writing, “being healthy gives you the freedom to obsess over the things that don’t really matter, like wrinkles, veins, and how tricky it is these days just to be able to turn on--excuse me, I mean power up--a television.” Often a series of items, such as this one, begins by listing a couple of relatively important matters, such as “wrinkles” and “veins,” before concluding with a trivial, anti-climactic item, such as turning on a television set. Again, separately, none of these items seems to belong with one another, but the context creates a surprising and amusing link that gets a laugh.

Describing a cycle that returns back upon itself, with the ending creating the same set of affairs as that with which the sequence began, thereby suggesting that it is vain to expect progress, can be a source of humor, too. In a stand-alone paragraph that follows her initial paragraph, Radner uses this technique to get a laugh: “I feel life is broken down into these stages: you’re born and you don’t know how anything works; gradually you find out how everything works; technology evolves and slowly there are a few things you can’t work; at the end, you don’t know how anything works.”

Humorous books frequently use transitional sentences that connect one paragraph with another and, at the same time, set up the punch line that follows the transition. “With the passing of every decade, our mortality becomes a little clearer and our eyesight a little fuzzier,” Radner writes, offering a contrast that involves disparate categories (“mortality” and “eyesight”) that are linked by a common event or theme (age, or “the passing of every decade”). A humorous example or two is then supplied to illustrate her meaning: “One day the writing on the menu becomes so blurry you just can’t bluff anymore. Now I have to mention that in this optical respect, I’m lucky I can see close up and my husband can see far away, so we’re covered. He tells me who’s in the movie and I tell him what’s in his sandwich.” The example is followed by a humorous conclusion that rounds out the section and gives the upshot of the segment: “Together we’re human bifocals.”

This basic structure of seemingly serious and straightforward claim or observation as a setup, followed by a ludicrous, often anticlimactic, punch line or example, structures much of the entire humorous book, as it does, indeed, Radner’s next paragraph:

The comforting factor about age is that nobody is immune [claim]. The blonde-haired bombshells of today are the blue-haired ladies of tomorrow [humorous example]. When I turned fifty, it also gave me cause to reflect on all the things that have gone right in my life [observation]. Marrying the right man, choosing the right career, and making sure my closet had lots of hanging space were all good decisions [humorous example consisting of two serious items, followed by an absurd one].

The final paragraph includes a Malapropism, or a misused homophone (sound-alike word) that creates a ridiculous effect. Radner confuses such a pair of homophones with one another, “incontinent” and “incompetent”: “I hope I’m lucky enough to live until I’m incontinent--I mean incompetent.” She rounds out her first chapter by bringing it full circle with the allusion to “my filthies,” a euphemism which she employs, in the chapter’s opening paragraph, for “fifties”: “In the meantime, I’m determined to enjoy and celebrate everything about being in my filthies.”

The first chapter of I Still Have It contains five short paragraphs:

1. The initial, or opening, paragraph, which introduces book’s theme, uses “filthies” as a euphemism for “fifties,” conflates eye dialect with stuttering, and exemplifies a serious claim with an anticlimactic series of items which contains absurd instances
2.  A body paragraph that describes a vicious circle of incompetence, followed by competence, followed by changing technology, followed by incompetence
3.  A body paragraph that uses a contrast between two disparate categories, mortality and vision, to set up examples that show Radner and her husband to form, “together,” a pair of “human bifocals”
4.  A body paragraph that exemplifies a serious observation with a contrast between women of younger and older age groups and a claim concerning “things that have gone right” with an anticlimactic series of items which contains absurd instances
5.  A concluding paragraph that uses a Malapropism before returning full circle to the beginning of the chapter by alluding to the “filthies” euphemism that was employed for “fifties” in the opening paragraph

Radner uses these same, as well as numerous other, techniques to generate humor throughout her book.

She starts each chapter the same way, with a serious claim or a straightforward observation that establishes the chapter’s topic and, at the same time, sets up the punch line that follows the observation or the claim.

Here, for example, is how she starts chapters 2 through 4:

While I do occasionally order items on the Internet, it’s hard to teach an old shopper new tricks [observation]. I’m convinced that the catalogue will eventually disappear, but not until the last baby boomers have kicked off their Nikes and been buried in mulch [humor through exaggeration] (“Catalogue Addiction”)

Because I was a child such a very long time ago and my contact with children until I had my own was so limited, I was entirely unaware of a child’s capacity for repetition (“Do It Again”). 

It’s my contention that the things you remember about your childhood govern the way you raise your own children. Even though my other died when I was thirteen, I find myself constantly remembering the little things she did for me as I spend time with my daughter (“Oh, Mother!”)

My father’s annual visit always reminded me that as we age we do not become less strange (“Go Ahead, Open This Bag”).

Conclusion

Each chapter starts with a fairly short paragraph that, making a serious claim or a straightforward observation, sets up the punch line that follows. The jokes often take the form of humorously absurd examples, humorously odd comparisons or contrasts, items in a series which consist of two or more serious terms followed by a concluding absurd item, vicious circles that end with a return to the initial state of affairs and thereby show a lack of progress, a Malapropism, an exaggeration, and allusions to humorous euphemisms. Transitions link paragraphs while, at the same time, setting up additional punch lines and jokes to follow, most of which work on the same principles as the previous ones, these transitions and the chapter’s overall topic giving a weak unity to the otherwise disparate collection of situations and jokes.

Next:  Chapter 3: Metaphor, Hyperbole, Situational Humor