For Laughing Out Loud

by Ed McMahon

  And then I saw Johnny come into my little commercial area. He got down on his hands and knees and came over to me. "Come right up, nice Hernandez," I said as I started to pet Johnny. Nice boss, I was thinking as I pet him on the head, nice boss. By this point the audience was hysterical. Carson wagged his rump to show how much he loved Alpo. I just kept going. I was going to get my commercial done. "The next time you're looking at the canned dog food . . ."—he rubbed his cheek against my leg— ". . . nice Hernandez . . . reach for the can that contains real beef . . ." Johnny got up on his knees and started begging for more. I started petting him again . . . and then he licked my hand. Good boss, good.

  And I still managed to conclude, gratefully, "And doesn't your dog deserve Alpo?"

  Maybe what surprised me most when I saw Carson was that he was trying to help me. Normally, when I did commercials, he did everything he could to cause me problems, from giving me a hotfoot to setting my script on fire. I did the commercials in a little area backstage. This commercial area was just behind the main set. To get there, I had to walk around the end of the set beyond the couch. Going that way enabled me to leave while Johnny was still on the air without being seen. It was a walk of about fifty feet, so it took only a few seconds to get there. Whenever I had a live spot to do, I'd leave about thirty seconds early to get ready. But one night—as it turns out, it was a live Alpo spot—Johnny wouldn't let me go.

  As I quietly got up to leave, he asked, "Where are you going?"

  "Nowhere," I said.

  Now, he knew exactly where I was going. The entire audience knew where I was going. "I thought you were getting up," he said.

  "Oh, no, no, I'm staying right here," I told him. "I wouldn't leave you. You're the boss. You want me to stay here, I'll stay right here. What time do they close this place?"

  "Oh, okay, good," he decided, then returned to whatever he was doing. And as soon as he did, I'd start to leave.

  He stopped me. "Now where are you going?" he demanded. "Can't you sit still?"

  "I'm right here, right where you need me."

  Of course, Johnny was making a big deal out of watching me from the corner of his eye, and in that way directing the audience's attention on me. "As I was saying . . ." I got up to leave again. "Now what is your problem tonight?"

  I have spent my entire life being on time. Maybe it's my marine training, maybe I learned it from my father. But when I am scheduled to be somewhere at a certain time, I am there. It really bothers me when I'm even a few minutes late. This commercial was scheduled to run at a specific moment; I intended to be there. "Well, John," I admitted, "I'm just going to take a little walk backstage and see, maybe, you know, maybe there's a little dog back there I can talk to. Maybe he's lonely. Maybe he's hungry. Maybe I can find a can of dog food for him . . ."

  "Well, why don't you just sit there," he said. Once again he started speaking, then stopped in the middle as if he'd caught me.

  I held up my hands. "I'm right here. See. I'm not going anywhere. I'm staying."

  "You're sure?"

  "I'm sure."

  "Good," he said, then faced the camera, held up a can of dog food, and said quickly, "and now, here's Ed with a message from Alpo."

  Carson wasn't the only one on that show trying to cause me problems. He was just the ringleader. One night I was doing a serious spot, I think it was for a life insurance company, and I looked up to see Buddy Hackett standing right next to the camera. And as I looked into that camera and started speaking to viewers in a somber voice, he started taking his clothes off. I mean, all his clothes: his shirt, shoes, pants, shorts. I am here to tell you, my friends, that is not a pretty sight.

  Buddy Hackett's body looks like a large lump of silly putty acting really silly. Perhaps for the first time, as I looked at his body, I understood the derivation of the phrase "belly laugh," because it was almost impossible to look at that belly and not laugh. I tried to remain serious, I tried not to laugh, particularly when I had to say phrases like "taking care of your family." And I did it. Everyone has his own definition of professionalism. Mine has something to do with getting through a complete commercial while Buddy Hackett is doing a striptease right next to the camera.

  I take great pride in my professionalism. I'm always on time, prepared, and ready to go to work. Very rarely have I allowed anything to distract me while I'm working. But there is one night on The Tonight Show that comes to mind. Again, it was an Alpo spot. By the time this happened, I had been doing Alpo commercials for years. The copy changed a little, but the commercials were all pretty much the same. Because I was busy filming the movie Fun with Dick and Jane with Jane Fonda and George Segal in the afternoon, I didn't have time to rehearse this commercial. I really wasn't the slightest bit concerned, I'd done thousands of commercials, I figured what could go wrong? But because I wasn't at rehearsal, I didn't know they were using a new dog.

  That night, at the right time, I slipped around the end of the set and ran toward the commercial set. And as I did, the woman in charge of the commercials said casually, "Watch out for this dog, Ed." I turned and saw this big German shepherd sitting quietly. A big shepherd. I immediately stopped running. I walked very gingerly to my chair and sat down. I didn't want to disturb him. As the commercial started, I had several thoughts in my mind, none of them having anything to do with the commercial: why exactly should I watch out for this dog? What's wrong with him? What's he doing? When it came time to push the bowl of dog food closer to him, I did it very carefully. I mean, I never took my eyes off this dog. I finished the commercial, but it was not one of the more convincing spots I've ever done.

  When the commercial ended, I couldn't wait to get off the set. But I didn't rush. Not with Rex the killer dog still eating. I stood up slowly and walked casually away. When I was far enough away, I asked, "What the hell was that all about? Why did I have to watch this dog?"

  "Oh, it was nothing," she replied. "He played an attack dog in some movie yesterday, but they deprogrammed him this morning."

  Nothing? A big, hungry attack dog? I asked, "Does the dog know he's been deprogrammed? How do we know that he knows he was acting?" Well, at least that dog ate his Alpo.

  Johnny and I did rehearse the sketches we did together, but most of the time what we did on the air was not what we rehearsed. In one sketch, for example, I played a reporter interviewing the world's oldest living man. Johnny was dressed in a zebra-skin loincloth, he was carrying the long staff of life, and his makeup was terrific. In fact, his makeup was the best thing in the sketch. The jokes were awful. The funniest thing about it was that a few jokes into the sketch Johnny and I, as well as the entire audience, realized it wasn't funny, and it wasn't going to be funny. It was filled with bad jokes and single entendres. Finally, Johnny, still in character, said to me, "You know what I'm going to do?"

  "Well no," I said, "I don't."

  "I'm going to get out of this sketch." And with that he turned around and walked back into his cave, leaving me out there all by myself.

  I didn't hesitate. I yelled, "Take me with you!" and followed him as fast as I could.

  We always tried to maintain our professionalism during these sketches, but sometimes we'd get so far away from the material that it was just impossible to get back. Often we just ended up giggling like two little kids. One night when things were completely out of control, it might have been the sketch we did about the famous nude bowler who had special bowling ba . . . well, I'll let you finish that joke. Johnny, who was wearing his bowling . . . equipment, looked at me, shook his head, and said in wonder, "Do you believe that two grown men . . ."

  To which I added carefully, "Graduates of major universities . . ." From that night on, whenever things got out of control Johnny would look at me and say it again. And again.

  I never knew what Aunt Blabby was going to do to me. Oh, sweet, dear Aunt Blabby, the lovable old lady who would happily run me over with her motorcycle if I stood between her and a handsome man. One
night while wearing golf shoes, she accidentally stepped on my toes with her spikes, causing me to limp for a week. We've probably all got Aunt Blabbys in our families, particularly those of us who come from really dysfunctional families. I think it is fair of me to say that the team of Blabby and McMahon will take its place among the many wonderful man-and-woman teams in show business history, teams like Burns and Allen and Lucy and Ricky, and that place is way down at the bottom, way, way down. My role with Aunt Blabby can probably best be described as tormentee. One night, for example, Aunt Blabby told me she was seeing an analyst. "Oh really," I said, as if that were a surprise, just as it was written. "I didn't know you were seeing an analyst."

  To which she replied, and this was not written, "I just told you I was . . . Why don't you listen to me? Bert Parks"—the perennial host of the Miss America pageant—"is available 364 days a year, you know that? One day a year he works, he can be here every night. You know, I've been depressed lately?"

  I recognized my cue. "Depressed?"

  "Yessss, depressed. Why do you repeat everything?" she scolded me. "I could go to Taco Bell for that . . ."

  Johnny enjoyed putting me on the defensive in our sketches, knowing that the audience enjoyed it too. So when he found something that worked, he never hesitated. We were doing Aunt Blabby one night, I think she had just returned from Club Med—she went accidentally, she thought it was Club Men—and very early in the sketch, either by accident or on purpose—and I have my suspicions—she hit me with her cane in the crotch. I jumped back. That was a mistake on my part; I should have remembered that old show business adage, never show weakness to Carson in an Aunt Blabby sketch. He knew he had something going, so he hit me again. And as I jumped back again, he said, "Where are you going?"

  "Nowhere," I said, backing up. The cameraman was shooting this from the waist up, so viewers at home couldn't see what was going on. But the audience in the studio was hysterical.

  "Why are you walking away from me," she asked, swinging that cane again. "If you want to do the interview, stay here."

  I backed up a few more feet.

  "See, there you go again. Do you want to talk to me or don't you?" Boom. Again. I wonder if there is an organization for abused straight men?

  I think our most popular sketches were the visits of Carnac the Magnificent. Carnac was a psychic who would give the answers to questions sealed in an envelope. My role in Carnac developed over time; originally all I was supposed to do was introduce him. But I improvised some things and the audience liked them and they became important elements in the sketch. What was supposed to be a brief introduction eventually became "Ladies and gentlemen, it is now time to introduce that wonderful visitor from the East. We have not seen him for many a fortnight and it is now time for his return. And so, I am pleased to introduce the famous sage, seer, soothsayer, the all-knowing, all-seeing, all-omniscient, and former dress designer to Janet Reno—or former tax adviser to Governor Reagan, or former campaign adviser to George McGovern, or former musical director of the Sex Pistols, or whatever—Carnac the Magnificent!"

  Johnny would come out dressed in a shawl and turban, take two steps . . . and trip right over the stair. I would try to help him and he would push me away. "Welcome," I began, "welcome, old—"

  "Not so old," he would correct me. Eventually he would settle down behind his desk. My job was simply to hand him sealed envelopes, but I began embellishing on that and it too became an important part of the skit. "I hold in my hands the envelopes," I announced seriously. "A child of four can plainly see that these envelopes have been hermetically sealed"—I have no idea where any of this stuff came from—"and they have been kept in a mayonnaise jar on Funk and Wagnall's porch since noon today. No one knows the contents of these envelopes, but you, oh great Carnac, in your magical, mystical, and borderline divine way, will ascertain the answer to the question, having never before heard the question. Is that about it?"

  I'd hand him the first envelope. He would hold it against his forehead, as if trying to mentally read its contents. And when he did, I would repeat, "Hermetically sealed . . . ," and laugh.

  He'd glare at me. "Please, I must have absolute silence."

  Which was always my cue to respond, "Carnac has had that many times before . . ."

  Then Carnac would reveal the answer. "Hi, diddle diddle."

  And I would repeat that answer, seriously, as if it had been carved in stone. "Hi, diddle diddle."

  And as I did, Carnac would tear open the envelope, blow into it to puff it open, then withdraw the question to which he'd just given the answer. In this case, "How do you greet your diddle in the morning?"

  Those were the jokes, folks, and we still lasted thirty years! I will be honest, sometimes Johnny and I were laughing at the quality of the jokes rather than at the jokes. "Executive action" was a typical answer, to which the question was "What does the president look for in a singles bar?"

  " 'Breaking Away' and 'Here's Boomer' " was Carnac's answer to the question "What are two really bad names for a laxative?"

  During the multibillion-dollar savings-and-loan scandal, the answer was "A nail, a board, and an S & L customer," to which the question was "Name something that's hammered, something that's sawed, and something that's screwed." And when Richard Nixon's attorney general, John Mitchell, went to jail, the answer was "A dove, a canary, and John Mitchell," which answered the question "Name a lovebird, a songbird, and a jailbird."

  "Sis, boom, bah" was the answer to the all-time favorite question of Carnac's fans, "What is the sound made by an exploding sheep?"

  The audience had a role in Carnac too. At the end of the sketch I would hold up the final envelope and announce, "I hold in my hand the last envelope . . . ," and the audience would cheer loudly. "I hold in my hand the last envelope . . . " became another line that people love to hear me say that always gets a laugh and thunderous applause.

  Carnac responded to that line with an insult, "May your only son become a Kelly girl," "May the Tunisian army invade your sister's closet," and that would end that visit from Carnac.

  My favorite character, who we really didn't do that much, was El Moldo, the mentalist. This was a parody of performers like Dunninger, who supposedly could read minds. I played his accomplice. El Moldo was very different from Carnac. Carnac had to figure out what was in the envelope, whereas El Moldo was blindfolded and had to figure out what I was holding in my hand. Big difference. Admittedly, on occasion I would give slight hints to El Moldo. For example, if I was holding up a watch, I would ask, "El Moldo, what am I holding up this . . . time? " Or, I'd hold up a pencil and urge him, "El Moldo, hurry on this, you know, get the lead out." It didn't matter; he would never get the correct answer.

  El Moldo was no less suggestive than Carnac. "El Moldo, I have a woman in the audience . . . ," I began.

  "Good, get me one too."

  "And she is holding something in her hand that . . ."

  He laughed, "El Moldo not touch that one or El Moldo be off the air."

  Sometimes though, even the great El Moldo actually did get something right. One night he guessed, "Is there someone in the audience wearing a shirt?"

  "Well," I replied sarcastically, "of course there is."

  "El Moldo's off to a good start . . ." El Moldo was scripted, but that didn't matter very much. I mean, if I missed a line, who would notice? And who would care? This wasn't like Burns and Allen, where if George missed one of his setup lines, Gracie's punch line would make no sense. This was two guys having fun. We were explorers in search of laughter. We started on a trail, the script was our map, but when we heard a laugh, we turned in that direction. And we followed the laughs, wherever they led us. Believe me, there were many times when we had no idea where we were or where we were going.

  We would often do a little bit in which Johnny read a short excerpt from a book or a newspaper item in which there was a list of suggestions or some advice, and then he would add some additional suggestions o
r advice that had been created by our writers. For example, "Do not marry a girl who's had a fungus named after her." My job was to occasionally shake my head in wonder and amazement and improvise responses like "That's terrific," "No kidding, I didn't know that," and "Wow." Perhaps you'd like to read that last line again, "Wow." Thank you.

  Most people don't believe that I took an acting lesson until they read my delivery of those lines. Look, it's tough for a straight man to get laughs, even with big lines like that. But as in everything else Johnny and I did, my little role in this bit grew until it became an integral part of the sketch. People laughed in anticipation of laughing. They knew the setup. For example, Johnny would read a list of things a good driver should know from an auto magazine. When he finished, I would begin, ad-libbing as I went along, my voice growing louder, "Johnny I don't know how you do it. You're as busy as anyone I've ever known. You've got the Oscar telecast coming up, millions of people are going to watch you on that show"—this is known in the straight-man trade as "milking it," or, technically, "sucking up to the boss"—"and yet you have time to go to the library and find this amazing book. Because when I go to the library I don't find them. But you have found a book that clearly delineates all you should know about driving a car. It's amazing, it's not a very big book. It doesn't have a lot of pages. From where I'm sitting it doesn't look like it could be more than ninety pages long. It's not a book that would jump right off the shelf. But you found it. I just don't know how you do it, but somehow you find these things and bring them in to enlighten our audience and it's a wonderful thing . . ." Here comes the big loud finish, ". . . Because when you read that book to our audience, I can say right now that everything you ever want to know about driving a car is listed in that thin little book."