Out of Whack Read Free

great deal less of the hair I’d cultivated up to that point, and my mom entered the elite society of Valium users. I remained an only child simply because I had been born first.
           I started telling jokes at an early age. At age five, I interrupted my mom’s bridge group to share a joke I’d overheard from my uncle. I can’t remember it exactly, but it involved a farmer’s daughter and a door-to-door salesman. Fortunately, I didn’t tell the joke quite right, and my mom’s friends were left wondering what kind of agricultural development was responsible for a twelve-inch peanut.
           One day, when I was seven, I was walking through a friend’s kitchen, paying as little attention as possible to where I was going, and smacked into the refrigerator. This elicited a laugh from my friend, and boom, I became Slapstick Man! Anywhere I thought I could get a laugh, either by bumping into something, falling, dropping a messy food product, whatever, I did it. Sure, I got hurt a few times, but to me the laughs were worth it. I hadn’t yet learned the difference between people laughing at me and laughing with me. This went on for about a two-month period, known affectionately as Seth’s Really Stupid Phase.
           My Really Stupid Phase came to an end when my dad sat me down for a serious talk after signing my cast. We never had many serious talks. The poor guy just wasn’t any good at them, and still isn’t. A few years later, when we had our serious talk about the birds and the bees and other interspecies relationships, he got wrong the few parts that he didn’t try to distract me from hearing. The talk that ended the reign of Slapstick Man was simple.
           “Son,” he said, “does your arm hurt?”
           “Yes,” I admitted.
           “Do you know why it hurts?”
           “‘Cause I broke it.”
           “And why’d you break it?”
           “I fell out of the tree.”
           “Exactly. Knock that kind of crap off. Now go get me my pipe and tobacco.”
           The next year I entered Practical Joke Phase. This phase was not pretty. The fake insects and reptiles left in strategic locations were just the beginning. Everyone learned not to accept candy or gum from me because it would dye their lips, burn their tongue, or contain a bug. Condiment containers almost never held the correct condiment. I used creamed corn to give fake vomit a more realistic appearance. Shaking hands with me was certain tragedy. (While we’re on the subject, I think somebody should invent a joy buzzer diaphragm as a gag gift for brides-to-be.) I had a collection of five whoopee cushions, and they were always hidden somewhere...waiting...
           Yes, I was a brat. I’m sure that more than one adult, upon leaving our house, felt compelled to remark “What a darling little shithead.” But one day I watched an episode of some sitcom where the youngest and cutest child learned an important lesson: Practical jokes might be amusing to the person playing them, but to the victims they’re not always so funny. So I said “forget it” and retired the disappearing ink.
           Okay, that’s a lie. It was a big-time spanking from my Aunt Valerie that cured me. I poured itching powder down her back (I used that stuff in bulk) and before she’d fully recovered from that prank, she sat on a toilet seat coated with a thin layer of special glue that was marketed for just that purpose. It was a long time before either of our butts recovered.
           After those infamous phases in my life, I turned to joke books. I’m sure my constant jokes and riddles got annoying, but my parents were relieved about this switch in brands of humor, so they encouraged me by buying me dozens of those books and always saying “Who’s there?” on cue. That’s when I found that, though I couldn’t remember squat about math or geography, I could effortlessly remember