A humor (come from the web)

SCAN

You may have noticed that I haven't been writing. I also haven't been sleeping or digesting.

Rumors of my death are largely exaggerated. You know those suckers you see on the news? The ones who hand over to con artists large sums of money and you wonder how such boobs make it through the day without a foam helmet?

That's me. The boob. I lost my nest egg to the nicest cheat you'll ever meet. We'll call him Bob McKnob.

Bob has a reputation among D.A.'s for sliming entertainers. He's good at accepting money but not so good at producing the shows. In fact, the shows never actually, technically, take place.

I believed so much in our star-studded event that I fronted the money myself. It cost approximately, not including finance charges and cash-advance fees, everything.

That's what I said when I handed the money to Bob: "This is everything I've got. I'm all in."

A week later, my buddy Pete called to say, "Jay, you know that guy you're doing business with? Don't. He's a shark. He's been tried for grand theft and fraud."

My world got quiet the way it does in that instant between the scissors hitting your foot and the pain reaching your brain -- only it happened slowly, over a week of unreturned phone calls.

At the police station, I fielded questions from a detective who referred to my standup as "the comedy acts that you conduct." As if I weren't unfunny enough.

The detective turned into Charlie Brown's teacher -- wa wa wa wa wa -- and I, exhausted, thought about how the Dodgers could use more pitching. Strange, huh? It reminded me of that song by Tori Amos: "Funny the things that go through your head when there's a man on your back. Like, ‘I haven't been to Barbados.'"

I remember when Bob and I sat outside the Improv sharing our plans for the future. Bob put his arm around me and promised brotherhood to the end. Then he ran off to feed the homeless with his church group. Seriously. That's what he said.

The question is whether I'm naive enough to collect disability.

In my defense, Bob is smooth like the Hillside Strangler. He convinced me to the bone. Maybe Norton could invent an anti-virus for humans -- Con Scum Deluxe -- so that when you shake McKnob's hand, an alarm goes off: "Norton has detected malicious intent. Begin background check?"

Pete said that he knows a guy who collects money in nontraditional ways (i.e., Louisville Slugger), but I couldn't make it in prison. Not without Soap-on-a-Rope anyway.

Until now I've been lucky enough to work full-time doing columns, cartoons, and comedy. My accountant, Grim Reaper, says that if I don't find punch-clock work soon, I'll begin a new chapter in my life: Chapter 13.

So I am forced to worst kind of triage: deciding which of my babies to feed. For now, I will in my leftover minutes do standup (do-or-die writing). With standup you always get feedback. Sometimes in the form of flying cigarette butts. I'll yearn for the columns and cartoons, of course, and may nurture them should I outgrow the need for sleep.

I've already gone through the stages -- anger, denial, Long Island Iced Teas -- and now I'm comfortably dumb. The real loss isn't money but the privilege of entertaining you. I may apply at Trader Joe's, but that's my fault for majoring in English. I just hope they don't expect me to handle money. It's too soon.

I couldn't return to Corporate America without surgery to the frontal lobe. You can still find claw marks and fingernail chips in my last cubicle, like that well in Silence of the Lambs. My one tie is for emergency use only. It hangs in the back of my closet like a noose.

Sorry it has taken so long to explain. It's tough to write when you don't know where you'll wake up. Or whether you'll be parked legally when you do. Humor guys don't call in sick; they call in serious.

For all the hours I log in comedy clubs, I hold a special place for readers. Smart, friendly, all-too-precious readers.

In some states you don't even want to get caught with a book.

"You know where you are, boy? Out here we don't take kindly to people who … read."

If you happen to know a patron or a venture capitalist or Oprah Winfrey, my stock is priced to sell. I don't need much: food and shelter, a little toilet paper to decorate Bob's house. Should we ever find Bob's house.

On Monday I meet with and attorney, at which point I may resort to Plan C -- holding the attorney for ransom. SWAT will have to flush me out with tear gas or bright lights or Blue Collar Comedy.

I have become almost businesslike, a bee with an itch, Erin Brockovich minus the cleavage (I couldn't be trusted with cleavage). In comedy, they call it "popping" -- when you finally stop caring. So while I haven't been writing, I have been snapping, or popping. Crackling. Whatever.

Besides, I still have my health. If you're interested, I'm selling it on EBay for ten bucks a vial.

I will continue taking notes on cocktail napkins, same as always; and should you need me, I'll be conducting comedy acts in aisle four at Trader Joe's. I'm the one wearing a foam helmet. So it goes.