Monday, September 03, 2007
The Anatomy of Humor 4: More Jewish Humor
HUMOR
Readers who enjoyed the recent analysis of Jewish humor have clamored for more, and we are happy to oblige. No discussion of Jewish humor can avoid the charge of Jewish masochism (sometimes called "Jewish self-hatred") leveled at contemporary Jewish humorists. This is an ancient allegation, however, and loses sight of the reality of Jewish history. The self-deprecating jokes told centuries ago in the segregated ghettos of Eastern Europe have been recycled by Jewish comedians into updated versions, with settings changed to New York, Miami Beach, Hollywood or Las Vegas. The paradox is that today traditional Jewish jokes are told more often in America than they ever were in their country of origin.
America has provided a wide variety of venues for the transmission of Jewish humor, ranging from the Borscht belt of hotels that once flourished in the Catskills to the newest phenomenon, comedy clubs. No small part of the preponderance of Jewish humor can be attributed to the large numbers of Jews in the entertainment industry. This cohort has been so sizable that the very nature of modern American comedy has been colored by its Jewish roots. The humorous material of some entertainers--Steve Allen, for example--was so "Jewish" that audiences were surprised to discover that he wasn't Jewish. The explanation, of course, is that many of Allen's writers were Jewish.
Your columnist is not Jewish--but residence in the New York metropolitan area for any length of time inevitably exposes everyone to Jewish culture, cuisine and humor. Just as one doesn't have to be Jewish to enjoy Jewish food, one doesn't have to be Jewish to enjoy Jewish humor, which is often concerned in some way with food and drink, as in this old standby:
An elderly Jewish gentleman faints in Times Square on a blistering hot day. A crowd of curious onlookers quickly gathers around the man collapsed on the sidewalk. A young man pushes his way through the crowd, saying officiously, "Let me through! Let me through! I'm a doctor!" When he reaches the old man, he kneels down and examines him carefully. Producing a stethoscope, he listens to his chest, takes his pulse and looks at his pupils. Satisfied, he stands up and says to the crowd, "Get back! Everybody get back! There's nothing wrong with him. Just give him water! Give him water." On hearing this, the elderly Jewish gentleman raises himself on his elbows and calls out, "A malted!"
A variation on this joke has the old gentleman calling for "an egg cream!"--a drink made at New York neighborhood soda fountains and notable for containing neither egg nor cream, being merely a mixture of chocolate syrup, milk and seltzer water. Still another variant has him asking for "a Doctor Brown's Celery Tonic," a carbonated concoction so lacking in celery as an ingredient that its makers were forced to change the name to Doctor Brown's Cel-Ray Tonic. It is sometimes referred to as the Jewish national drink.
An extension of the joke about the elderly Jewish gentleman who fainted changes the subject to the familiar one about station in life: An ambulance arrives and the still unsteady Jewish gentleman is placed in it. As the trip to the hospital begins, the emergency medical technician tucks a blanket around the recumbent patient and asks, "Are you comfortable?" The old Jewish gentleman looks pleased, nods and assures him, "I make a good living."
Like may emigrant groups, Jews got their feet on the bottom rung of the economic ladder by carving a niche in retail trade--first as backpack-carrying peddlers, then on city streets with pushcarts and ultimately with retail storefronts. Operation of a store was usually engaged in by members of the entire family. The following joke builds on this theme:
Sam Lapidus is gravely ill in bed at home. When he takes a turn for the worse, family members gather at his bedside. Dimly aware of the figures clustered around him, he looks up and asks, "What's happening?" His wife, Sarah, takes his hand and tells him, "Everything's gonna be all right, Sam. The family is here."
He raises himself slightly and peers at the other figures crowding the dimly lit room, "Is daughter Becky here?" he asks. His daughter comes forward and assures him, "Yes, Poppa, I'm here." He says, "And my son Sammy, is he here?" This time a young man presses forward to confirm his presence. "Not to worry, Poppa, I'm here, too," he says. Somewhat relieved, Sam nods his head and asks, "How about my brother Jake? Is he here?" Jake steps forward. "Don't worry, Sam, I'm here. In fact, we're all here, don't worry," he tells him. Another figure edges closer to the bed and touches his arm. "I'm here too, Sam. It's me, Cousin Sadie." A pained expression comes over Sam Lapidus's face. "Who's by the store?"
Jokes about the inevitable problems that arise from social climbing are common in Jewish humor: Partners Lapidus and Cohen have had a successful dress-manufacturing season and decide to celebrate by having dinner at a posh Park Avenue hotel. They are seated in the ornate dining room by a tail-coated headwaiter and served by a haughty waiter in a tuxedo. They are handed two of the largest menus they have ever seen and manage to work their way though such unfamiliar expressions as Vichyssoise, escargots, terrine and gigot d'agneau.
Toward the end of the meal, the waiter places in front of each of them a small bowl of scented liquid on which a thin slice of lemon floats. Lapidus looks inquiringly at Cohen and whispers, "What's this?" His partner shrugs. "I dunno. It couldn't be soup. Soup we had. It couldn't be water. Water we got. It's gotta be something. I'm going to ask the waiter." An unhappy Sam Lapidus kicks him under the table and whispers again, "Whatever you do, don't ask the waiter and show your ignorance." His stubborn partner catches the waiter's eye and signals for him to come to the table. "Do you wish something, sir?" the waiter inquires. Affecting nonchalance, Cohen says, "Would you mind telling me what is the significance of this bowl?" "Not at all, sir," the waiter responds. "That, sir, is a finger bowl for you to wash your fingers in." Lapidus smiles triumphantly. "See, what did I tell you?" he gloats to his partner. "See. Ask a stupid question and you get a foolish answer."
Health and old-fashioned remedies are a staple of Jewish humor. At one time, New York's Second Avenue was the Rialto of the Yiddish theater, its familiar plays characterized by old-fashioned dramatic declamations by the actors. At the conclusion of the first act of a Yiddish classic, the theater manager steps in front of the curtain to make an announcement. "Ladies and gentlemen! I have some very sad news. The star who has been playing the male lead in this play has just dropped dead backstage. Your admission money will be refunded at the box office." A groan goes up from the audience.
As the manager turns to leave the stage, a woman's voice calls out from the balcony: "Give him an enema!" The manger returns to center stage. Looking out at the audience in the direction from which the voice originated, he says: "Perhaps you did not understand, Madame. The man is dead. There's absolutely nothing we can do." The woman in the balcony yells again, "Give him an enema!" Exasperated, but exhibiting monumental patience, the theater manager tries one more time. "Madame, the man has expired. He is dead, and there would be no point in doing what you suggest. There's absolutely no way an enema could be of any help." The voice persists with a final shouted rejoinder in a New York accent: "It couldn't hoit."
Jokes about the proverbial Jewish mother--the ultimate cliché in contemporary Jewish humor--are a relatively recent phenomenon. Traditional Jewish humor had no such jokes, although mother-in-law jokes were common, perhaps because the bride’s parents frequently supported a son-in-law for several years after the wedding. A possible reason for the change in a Jewish mother's status may lie in the way success is measured in America. Success comes when a husband earns enough so that his wife does not have to work. Jewish mothers who ceased to be involved in the economic survival of their families became overprotective, leading to jokes about the smothering Jewish mother. The following is the epitome of Jewish mother jokes:
A married daughter phones her mother early one morning: "Hello, Ma. I've got a problem." The mother says, "Shirley darling, what problem?" "Oh, Ma, I don't know where to begin. Both kids are sick. The refrigerator is making strange noises. The sink is leaking. In three hours my Hadassah group will be here for lunch. What am I going to do?"
The mother says, "Shirley darling, don't worry. I'll go right to Grand Central. Then I'll catch an express train to Scarsdale. If I can't get a taxi, I'll walk from the station to your house. I'll take care of the kids. I know what's wrong with the refrigerator. I'll call a plumber for the sink. I'll make a nice lunch for the Hadassah ladies." The mother's supportive voice on the telephone adds, "And I'll even cook dinner for Barry."
"Barry? Who's Barry?" the caller asks. "Barry, your husband," is the response. "But, Ma, my husband's name is David. (Pause) Is this 914/472-9970?" The answer comes back: "No, this is 472-9979." (Long pause) The caller asks, plaintively, "Does that mean you're not coming?"
Readers who enjoyed the recent analysis of Jewish humor have clamored for more, and we are happy to oblige. No discussion of Jewish humor can avoid the charge of Jewish masochism (sometimes called "Jewish self-hatred") leveled at contemporary Jewish humorists. This is an ancient allegation, however, and loses sight of the reality of Jewish history. The self-deprecating jokes told centuries ago in the segregated ghettos of Eastern Europe have been recycled by Jewish comedians into updated versions, with settings changed to New York, Miami Beach, Hollywood or Las Vegas. The paradox is that today traditional Jewish jokes are told more often in America than they ever were in their country of origin.
America has provided a wide variety of venues for the transmission of Jewish humor, ranging from the Borscht belt of hotels that once flourished in the Catskills to the newest phenomenon, comedy clubs. No small part of the preponderance of Jewish humor can be attributed to the large numbers of Jews in the entertainment industry. This cohort has been so sizable that the very nature of modern American comedy has been colored by its Jewish roots. The humorous material of some entertainers--Steve Allen, for example--was so "Jewish" that audiences were surprised to discover that he wasn't Jewish. The explanation, of course, is that many of Allen's writers were Jewish.
Your columnist is not Jewish--but residence in the New York metropolitan area for any length of time inevitably exposes everyone to Jewish culture, cuisine and humor. Just as one doesn't have to be Jewish to enjoy Jewish food, one doesn't have to be Jewish to enjoy Jewish humor, which is often concerned in some way with food and drink, as in this old standby:
An elderly Jewish gentleman faints in Times Square on a blistering hot day. A crowd of curious onlookers quickly gathers around the man collapsed on the sidewalk. A young man pushes his way through the crowd, saying officiously, "Let me through! Let me through! I'm a doctor!" When he reaches the old man, he kneels down and examines him carefully. Producing a stethoscope, he listens to his chest, takes his pulse and looks at his pupils. Satisfied, he stands up and says to the crowd, "Get back! Everybody get back! There's nothing wrong with him. Just give him water! Give him water." On hearing this, the elderly Jewish gentleman raises himself on his elbows and calls out, "A malted!"
A variation on this joke has the old gentleman calling for "an egg cream!"--a drink made at New York neighborhood soda fountains and notable for containing neither egg nor cream, being merely a mixture of chocolate syrup, milk and seltzer water. Still another variant has him asking for "a Doctor Brown's Celery Tonic," a carbonated concoction so lacking in celery as an ingredient that its makers were forced to change the name to Doctor Brown's Cel-Ray Tonic. It is sometimes referred to as the Jewish national drink.
An extension of the joke about the elderly Jewish gentleman who fainted changes the subject to the familiar one about station in life: An ambulance arrives and the still unsteady Jewish gentleman is placed in it. As the trip to the hospital begins, the emergency medical technician tucks a blanket around the recumbent patient and asks, "Are you comfortable?" The old Jewish gentleman looks pleased, nods and assures him, "I make a good living."
Like may emigrant groups, Jews got their feet on the bottom rung of the economic ladder by carving a niche in retail trade--first as backpack-carrying peddlers, then on city streets with pushcarts and ultimately with retail storefronts. Operation of a store was usually engaged in by members of the entire family. The following joke builds on this theme:
Sam Lapidus is gravely ill in bed at home. When he takes a turn for the worse, family members gather at his bedside. Dimly aware of the figures clustered around him, he looks up and asks, "What's happening?" His wife, Sarah, takes his hand and tells him, "Everything's gonna be all right, Sam. The family is here."
He raises himself slightly and peers at the other figures crowding the dimly lit room, "Is daughter Becky here?" he asks. His daughter comes forward and assures him, "Yes, Poppa, I'm here." He says, "And my son Sammy, is he here?" This time a young man presses forward to confirm his presence. "Not to worry, Poppa, I'm here, too," he says. Somewhat relieved, Sam nods his head and asks, "How about my brother Jake? Is he here?" Jake steps forward. "Don't worry, Sam, I'm here. In fact, we're all here, don't worry," he tells him. Another figure edges closer to the bed and touches his arm. "I'm here too, Sam. It's me, Cousin Sadie." A pained expression comes over Sam Lapidus's face. "Who's by the store?"
Jokes about the inevitable problems that arise from social climbing are common in Jewish humor: Partners Lapidus and Cohen have had a successful dress-manufacturing season and decide to celebrate by having dinner at a posh Park Avenue hotel. They are seated in the ornate dining room by a tail-coated headwaiter and served by a haughty waiter in a tuxedo. They are handed two of the largest menus they have ever seen and manage to work their way though such unfamiliar expressions as Vichyssoise, escargots, terrine and gigot d'agneau.
Toward the end of the meal, the waiter places in front of each of them a small bowl of scented liquid on which a thin slice of lemon floats. Lapidus looks inquiringly at Cohen and whispers, "What's this?" His partner shrugs. "I dunno. It couldn't be soup. Soup we had. It couldn't be water. Water we got. It's gotta be something. I'm going to ask the waiter." An unhappy Sam Lapidus kicks him under the table and whispers again, "Whatever you do, don't ask the waiter and show your ignorance." His stubborn partner catches the waiter's eye and signals for him to come to the table. "Do you wish something, sir?" the waiter inquires. Affecting nonchalance, Cohen says, "Would you mind telling me what is the significance of this bowl?" "Not at all, sir," the waiter responds. "That, sir, is a finger bowl for you to wash your fingers in." Lapidus smiles triumphantly. "See, what did I tell you?" he gloats to his partner. "See. Ask a stupid question and you get a foolish answer."
Health and old-fashioned remedies are a staple of Jewish humor. At one time, New York's Second Avenue was the Rialto of the Yiddish theater, its familiar plays characterized by old-fashioned dramatic declamations by the actors. At the conclusion of the first act of a Yiddish classic, the theater manager steps in front of the curtain to make an announcement. "Ladies and gentlemen! I have some very sad news. The star who has been playing the male lead in this play has just dropped dead backstage. Your admission money will be refunded at the box office." A groan goes up from the audience.
As the manager turns to leave the stage, a woman's voice calls out from the balcony: "Give him an enema!" The manger returns to center stage. Looking out at the audience in the direction from which the voice originated, he says: "Perhaps you did not understand, Madame. The man is dead. There's absolutely nothing we can do." The woman in the balcony yells again, "Give him an enema!" Exasperated, but exhibiting monumental patience, the theater manager tries one more time. "Madame, the man has expired. He is dead, and there would be no point in doing what you suggest. There's absolutely no way an enema could be of any help." The voice persists with a final shouted rejoinder in a New York accent: "It couldn't hoit."
Jokes about the proverbial Jewish mother--the ultimate cliché in contemporary Jewish humor--are a relatively recent phenomenon. Traditional Jewish humor had no such jokes, although mother-in-law jokes were common, perhaps because the bride’s parents frequently supported a son-in-law for several years after the wedding. A possible reason for the change in a Jewish mother's status may lie in the way success is measured in America. Success comes when a husband earns enough so that his wife does not have to work. Jewish mothers who ceased to be involved in the economic survival of their families became overprotective, leading to jokes about the smothering Jewish mother. The following is the epitome of Jewish mother jokes:
A married daughter phones her mother early one morning: "Hello, Ma. I've got a problem." The mother says, "Shirley darling, what problem?" "Oh, Ma, I don't know where to begin. Both kids are sick. The refrigerator is making strange noises. The sink is leaking. In three hours my Hadassah group will be here for lunch. What am I going to do?"
The mother says, "Shirley darling, don't worry. I'll go right to Grand Central. Then I'll catch an express train to Scarsdale. If I can't get a taxi, I'll walk from the station to your house. I'll take care of the kids. I know what's wrong with the refrigerator. I'll call a plumber for the sink. I'll make a nice lunch for the Hadassah ladies." The mother's supportive voice on the telephone adds, "And I'll even cook dinner for Barry."
"Barry? Who's Barry?" the caller asks. "Barry, your husband," is the response. "But, Ma, my husband's name is David. (Pause) Is this 914/472-9970?" The answer comes back: "No, this is 472-9979." (Long pause) The caller asks, plaintively, "Does that mean you're not coming?"
Labels: Humor, Jewish Humor
