Funny Ha, Ha

by Paul Merton

  Nauseous in Nashville

  DEAR NAUSEOUS:

  Sounds like hubby has some deep dark cravings, or so my sleep disorder experts tell me. Why not fix him up a yummy bowl of butterscotch pudding (from scratch) just before bedtime?

  By the way… you mean “nauseated,” dear.

  DEAR BETTY:

  You want to know what burns me up? Inconsiderate bozos who jam up the speedy checkout line with grocery carts loaded to the brim, and moronic bimbos who let their children rip open bags of candy and cereal boxes and knock over jelly jars, and don’t even have the decency to tell the stockboy to clean up their disgusting mess. I just got back from two hours at the grocery store and my new pumps are covered with mincemeat. What do you think of these lunkheads?

  Burned Up

  DEAR BURNED:

  These people are not bozos, bimbos, or lunkheads. They are trash.

  DEAR BETTY:

  I am 135 pounds of screaming muscle in crepe-soled shoes. I groan under enormous trays laden with exotic delicacies I shall never taste, as they are beyond my meager economic means. Having seen your face once I am able to connect it with the food and drink of your choice. I smile when you are rude to me and apologize when the fault lies in the kitchen. I walk the equivalent of five miles each night on throbbing feet to satisfy your every whim, and when you are stuffed and have no further need of me, I act grateful for a substandard tip, if at all. I am

  Your Waitress

  DEAR WAITRESS:

  Thank you.

  What’s the question?

  DEAR BETTY:

  You hear from so many unfortunates with serious problems that I feel a bit ashamed to take up your time this way. I am an attractive woman of 59; my thighs are perfectly smooth, my waist unthickened, I still have both my breasts and all my teeth; in fact I am two dress sizes smaller than I was at eighteen. My three grown daughters are intelligent, healthy, and independent. My husband and I are as much in love as when we first were married, despite the depth of our familiarity, and the, by now, considerable conflation of our tastes, political beliefs, preferences in music and art, and, of course, memories. He still interests and pleasures me; miraculously our sexual life remains joyous, inventive, and mutually fulfilling. I continue to adore the challenge and variety of my career as an ethnic dance therapist. We have never had to worry about money. Our country home is lovely, and very old, and solidly set down in a place of incomparable, ever shifting beauty; our many friends, old and new, are delightful people, amusing and wise, and every one of them honorable and a source of strength to us.

  And yet, with all of this, and more, I am frequently very sad, and cannot rid myself of a growing, formless, yet very real sense of devastating loss, no less hideous for its utter irrationality. Forgive me, but does this make any sense to you?

  Niobe

  DEAR NIOBE:

  Certainly. You’re lying about the sex.

  DEAR BETTY:

  Why not scissor the cups out of your old brassieres and set them out in your annual garden as little domes to protect fragile seedlings? It looks wacky but it sure does the trick!

  Petunia

  DEAR PETUNIA:

  Why the heck not? And hey, don’t throw away those brassiere straps! Kids love to carry their schoolbooks in them, especially once you’ve disguised their embarrassing identity with precision-cut strips of silver mylar cemented front and back with epoxy, then adorned with tiny hand-sewn appliques in animal or rock-star designs. Use your imagination!

  CONFIDENTIAL to Smarting and Smiling:

  What you describe is not a “richly deserved comeuppance” but a sexual perversion, which, aside from being your own business and none of mine, is harmless enough and, if I read accurately between the lines, apparently works well for both of you.

  You might just try these thought experiments, though: Imagine the effect upon your sex life of: a business failure, the birth of a child; rheumatoid arthritis (his); a positive biopsy (yours); the death of a child; a sudden terrifying sense of vastation that comes to either of you at three in the morning; a Conelrad Alert. In what ways would it differ from the experience of a couple for whom the concepts of integrity, maturity, valor and dignity retained actual relevance and power?

  DEAR BETTY:

  You deserve a swift kick in the pants for your bum advice to Fretting in Spokane. Where do you get off telling that lady to iron her dustcloths? Dollars to doughnuts you’ve got a maid to keep your rags shipshape, but most of us aren’t so lucky.

  And another thing. These days there’s getting to be a snotty, know-it-all, lah-dee-dah, cynical tone to your column. I can’t put my finger on it, but I’m not the only one who thinks you’re getting “too big for your britches.” Don’t kid yourself. You need us more than we need you. So bend over, Betty, if you know what’s good for you, and get ready for a

  Washington Wallop

  DEAR WALLOP:

  For what it’s worth, I agree with you about the dustcloths. But I sincerely regret having ever unwittingly encouraged your brand of coarse familiarity. And may I suggest that you take yourself to the nearest dictionary—you can find one in any public library—and “put your finger” on the distinction between cynicism and irony. Think about it, Wallop. And tell me how it turns out.

  DEAR BETTY:

  Many years ago you ran a column that started off “The Other Woman is a sponging parasitic succubus…” I clipped it and kept it magnetized to my freezer, but it finally fell apart. Do you know the one I mean? Would you mind running it again?

  Sister Sue

  DEAR SIS:

  Not at all. Here goes:

  “The Other Woman is a sponging parasitic succubus, a proper role model for young people, a vacuous nitwit, a manic-depressive, a Republican, a good mother, an international terrorist, or what-have-you, depending, of course, upon the facts of her particular character and life.

  “Though this much should be obvious, there are those who believe that any woman sexually involved with a man she is not married to can be, for social and moral purposes, reduced to a cheap stereotype. This is dangerous nonsense. This is a terrible habit of thought. For who among us has fewer than three dimensions? In the history of the human race, has there ever existed a single person, besides Hitler, who could slip beneath closed doors, disappear when viewed from the side, and settle comfortably, with room to spare, between the pages of a bad novel?

  “Therefore let us rejoice in our variety! Let every one of us celebrate the special homeliness of her own history! Let us wonder, and be surprised, and admit to possibilities, and get on with it, and stop being so damn stupid!”

  DEAR BETTY:

  Are you nuts? You can’t get away with this. Even if you do, what’s the point?

  First Person Singular

  DEAR F.P.S.:

  The point is, watch my smoke.

  DEAR BETTY:

  I need you to settle an argument. My brother-in-law says you’re not the original Betty and that you’re not even a person. He says Betty died two years ago in a car wreck and they covered it up and this column is being carried on by a committee, hush-hush. I say he’s all wet. (He’s one of those conspiracy nuts.) Anyway, what’s the poop? (Hint: There’s a lobster dinner riding on this.)

  No Skeptic

  DEAR NO:

  This is a stumper. I’ve been staring for so long at the wonderful phrase “original Betty” that the words have become nonsensical and even the letters look strange. Who, I wonder, is or was the “original Betty”? I’m not making fun of you, dear. I honestly don’t know what to say. If it’s any help to you, I do have the same fingerprints as the infant born prematurely to Mary Alice Feeney in 1927, and the vivacious coed who won first prize in the national “My Country Because” essay contest of 1946, and the woman who put this column into syndication in 1952. So I suppose you deserve the lobster; although how you’re going to convince your brother-in-law is anybody’s guess. I wonder what he’d take as proof. I’ve got
to think about this.

  DEAR BETTY:

  It’s him I can’t stand. In bed! And he knows it, too. I just don’t want him touching me, I can’t bear it! And I still love him! But there’s nothing left any more, and how the hell is homemade butterscotch pudding going to help that? My God! My God! And don’t tell me it’s just a phase, because I know better and so does he. God, I’m so unhappy.

  Nauseated, All Right? in Nashville

  DEAR N:

  That’s much better. Awful, isn’t it? The death of desire? And you’re probably right, there’s no help for it. Though if you can stomach the notion that intimacy is nothing more than a perfectable technique, you might try what they call a “reputable sex therapist.”

  Of all the foolish, ignoble, even evil acts I have committed in my long life, including the “My Country Because” essay, the single event that most shames me, so that I flush from chest to scalp even as I write this, was when I sat, of my own free will, in the offices of one of these technicians, and in the presence of a pink, beaming, gleaming young man, a total stranger, took my husband’s hands in mine, and stared into his face, his poor face, crimson like my own, transfixed with humiliation and disbelief, and said—oh, this is dreadful; my husband of twenty-three years!—and said, in public, “I love it when you lick my nipples.”

  My God! My God!

  DEAR BETTY:

  Our family recently spent a weekend in our nation’s Capital. While there we visited the moving Vietnam Memorial. Upon our return home I penned the following lines, which I would like to share with you.

  You Could Have Been a Son of Ours

  You could have been a son of ours

  If we had ever had a son,

  You could have been our pride and joy

  But someone shot you with a gun

  And now your work is done.

  You perished in a jungle wild

  So that our freedoms might be insured.

  You risked your life without complaint

  You laid it down without a word.

  And now upon a long black stone

  Are chiseled words that give you fame,

  You could have been a son of ours—

  Were proud to say, “We know your name.”

  Emily

  READERS:

  Policy change! Policy change! Pay attention, now, because I’m not kidding around. Hereafter this column will continue to run the usual advice letters, recipes, and household hints, but we will no longer publish original verse. There will be no exceptions. Don’t even think about it.

  DEAR BETTY:

  I guess you think you’re pretty funny. I guess you think we’re all hicks and idiots out here.

  Well, maybe you’re right, but I’ll tell you one thing. That old letter I asked for about “The Other Woman”? It’s not the one you ran before, even though you said it was, or you changed it in some way. I may not be super intelligent but I’ve got a good memory, and what’s more I know when I’m being made fun of.

  You know what? You really hurt me. Congratulations.

  Sister Sue

  DEAR SIS:

  I am ashamed.

  I, too, have an excellent memory, and for this reason my recordkeeping has never been systematic. And very occasionally I confuse genuine mail with letters I have concocted for one reason or another. This is what happened in your case. I had you down as a fiction.

  I can’t apologize enough.

  DEAR BETTY:

  Aren’t you taking a big chance, admitting that you make up some of this stuff? Also, you haven’t dealt with Sister Sue’s real complaint, which is that now, inexplicably, after spending three decades securing the trust and affection of middle American women, you expose yourself as a misanthrope, misogynist, intellectual snob, and cheat. What are you up to, anyway?

  F.P.S.

  DEAR F:

  Look, nobody reads this but us gals, so I’m hardly “taking a big chance.” And it should be obvious, especially to you, that I’m “up to” no good.

  DEAR BETTY:

  Do you believe in God? I don’t. Also, do you ever sit in front of a mirror and stare at your face? My face is so blobby that I can’t figure out how even my own parents can recognize me. Lastly, do you think we should be selling weapons to Jordan?

  Fifteen and Wondering

  DEAR WONDERING:

  Take five years off after you graduate from high school. Move away from home, get a menial job, fall for as many unworthy young men as it takes to get all that nonsense out of your system. Don’t even think about college until your mind is parched and you are frantic to learn. Don’t marry in your twenties. Don’t be kind to yourself. Keep in touch.

  DEAR BETTY:

  I was not “lying about the sex’’, nor do I for a minute imagine that you thought I was. You simply could not resist making a flip wisecrack at my expense.

  I was lying about my friends, who have gradually lost their affection for me but continue to socialize with us because they value my husband’s company. He is aging well. I am turning into a fool. I’m one of those handsome old beauties with a gravelly, post-menopausal voice and a terrible laugh. I never had much of a sense of humor, but once I had a smoky, provocative laugh, which has now somehow become the sort of theatrical bray that hushes crowds. Strangers, accosted by me at parties, attacked at lunch counters and in elevators, shift and squirm in alarm: even the most obtuse knows he’s about to be mugged, that he will not be allowed to pass until I have exacted my tribute. I am all affectation, obvious need and naked ego: just that kind of horrible woman who imagines herself an unforgettable character. I tell off-color jokes and hold my breath after the punch line, threatening to asphyxiate if you fail to applaud my remarkably emancipated attitude. During the past forty years I have told countless people about the stillbirth of my son, to show that I Have Known Great Sorrow. I parade my political beliefs, all liberal and unexamined, as evidence of my wisdom. I am a deeply boring, fatuous woman, and strangers pity me, friends lose patience with me, and my family loves me because it never occurs to any of them that I know it. I am the emperor in his new clothes, who knew perfectly well he was naked, who just needed a little attention, that’s all, merely the transfixed attention of the entire populace, not an unreasonable request, just unlimited lifetime use of the cosmic footlights.

  Don’t try to tell me I can change. Of course I can’t. And don’t for an instant presume that I’m not all that bad. I am. Believe it.

  Niobe

  DEAR NIOBE:

  Yes, but on the other hand your astonishing self-awareness makes you a genuinely tragic figure. And, Honey, cling to this: you’re not ordinary. Commonplace sufferers find themselves trapped in homely, deformed, or dying bodies; you’re trapped in an inferior soul. You really are a remarkable woman. Bravo!

  How about it, Ladies? Isn’t she something?

  DEAR BETTY:

  Just who the hell do you think you are?

  Washington Wallop

  DEAR WALLOP:

  I am 147 pounds of despair in a fifty-pound mail sack. Though overpaid I groan with ennui beneath the negligible weight of your all too modest expectations, and when I fail to counter one of your clichés with another twice as mindless I apologize, even though the fault, God knows, is yours. I am

  Betty

  DEAR BETTY:

  Temper, temper.

  F.P.S.

  DEAR F:

  I can’t help it. That broad really frosts my butt.

  DEAR BETTY:

  Do I have an inner life? I think I read somewhere that women don’t. Also, what does it mean? Do you think we’re capable of original thought?

  Fifteen and Still Wondering

  DEAR WONDERING:

  I love you, and wish you were my own daughter. I have in fact two daughters, but neither of them has an inner life. I am what they call nowadays a “controlling personality.” (Believe me, dear, that’s not what they used to call it.) I was one of those omniscient mothers—the ones wh
o always claim to know what their children are thinking, what they’ve just done, what they are planning to do. Not for any sinister reasons, mind you, but I got so good at guessing and predicting that, without intending to, I actually convinced them both of their utter transparency. They are each adrift, goalless and pathetic. They are big soft women, big criers, especially when they spend much time with me. I think I should feel worse about this than I actually do. Do you think this is Darwinian of me? (Hint: Go to a good library, and take out some books on Darwin.)

  DEAR BETTY:

  It’s me again! Do you have any suggestions as to what I can do with a ten-foot length of old garden hose?

  Petunia

  DEAR PETUNIA:

  Do you ever just sit still? Do you ever just sit in front of a mirror, for instance, and stare at your face? It’s none of my business, but—and I say this with no snide intent; I am trying to be good, so that my teeth are literally clenched as I write this—I seriously think you should calm down. Petunia, even the Athenians threw things away. Let the garden hose be what it is, a piece of garbage. Now sit very very very still and try to think of nothing but the weight of your eyelids. Come to rest. Let your muscles slip and slide. Easy does it, girl. Easy. Sbhhhhhbhbbhh.

  DEAR BETTY:

  Maybe you should stop “trying to be good” if that’s the best you can do. If I were Petunia, I’d rather get a wisecrack than a lot of patronizing advice based upon a snap analysis of my character and the circumstances of my life. You’re a fine one to exhort them to wonder, be surprised, and admit to possibilities. On the basis of little evidence you’ve turned the woman into a cartoon. You don’t see her as a person at all, just a type Early thirties, right? Hyperthyroid, narrow-shouldered, big-bottomed, frantically cheery, classically obsessive-compulsive, a churchgoing, choir-singing, Brownie troop mothering Total Woman with a soft sweet high voice; darting panic behind her deep-set eyes, an awful cornball sense of humor, and an overbite like a prairie dog. Am I right? Boy, how trite can you get! And how presumptuous you’ve become! I’ve tried to see it your way, but it’s no go. I say, bring back the Original Betty.