And Here's the Kicker: Conversations with 21 Top Humor Writers on Their Craft

by Mike Sacks

  I watched a lot of television, but it wasn't that thrilling for me. It was like a piece of gum that you'd been chewing for a while but were too lazy to spit out. For me, television was something to fill the hours, and if I could go back I'd spend more time at the library — or looking for treasure with a metal detector.

  Even when I started writing for TV, I knew very little about show business or its history. I was naïve enough to believe that all who came before me were clueless stumblebums whose stale shtick was best swept out of the way. The only shows that made me laugh as a kid were Batman and Get Smart. I liked their insane premises and lurid showboating. They had bizarre gadgets and secret hideouts and sprawling fight scenes — very appealing to a boy. Then, almost as a bonus, you got this loopy, irreverent humor.

  I remember a scene from Get Smart where the character of Siegfried, a vice president of KAOS, kept ordering a carrier pigeon to take off — only it was dead. And he repeatedly tossed it in the air and told it to “Flyyyy uupp!” It kept landing with a thump. Other shows, like My Three Sons, didn't do jokes about death.

  Years later, I got to meet my girlfriend's dad, Lorenzo Semple Jr., who wrote for the Batman TV show and created the tone of the series. Lorenzo wrote the first four scripts, which established the campy sensibility of the show. For instance, he insisted that the actors take even the looniest developments seriously and avoid “winking” at the audience. His approach to a superhero show was both ingenious and massively influential.

  Lorenzo also wrote and co-wrote some classic films, including The Parallax View, Three Days of the Condor, and one of my favorite cult films, Pretty Poison. He's both a serious Yalie intellectual and a high-octane satirist.

  You've mentioned that television wasn't too important to you when you were young, but how important was humor?

  It kept me alive.

  Why do you think it was that important to you?

  It showed me an alternative to the grim worldview of thwarted adults.

  Would Catholicism fall under this “grim worldview”? In past interviews, you've talked about your dislike for religion in general and Catholicism in particular.

  Catholicism was much too frightening for a sensitive kid. A small bloody man presided over each classroom and there was way too much talk about mortal sin and eternal damnation. When they weren't scaring you, they were boring you with tiresome doctrine. The word “liturgy” still makes me sick with boredom.

  You can see that sensibility in many episodes of The Simpsons. As opposed to most shows, The Simpsons is never afraid to mock religion and the religious.

  I think what we're really satirizing is moral certainty — the myopia of the pious. The religious ferociously defend their own beliefs, but if a Sioux wants to keep a Target store off his sacred land they'll laugh in his face.

  Was writing for David Letterman your first professional humor-writing job?

  Yes. My friends from The Harvard Lampoon, Max Pross and Tom Gammill told me in late 1981 that Dave and Merrill Markoe were doing a late-night show, and I should submit material. Dave and Merrill took a chance on me, and it radically re-routed my life.

  Were you familiar with Letterman's work before you got the Late Night job? Had you seen his morning show, or his appearances on The Tonight Show in the late seventies and early eighties?

  I hadn't seen Dave's morning show at the time, because I was working at a research lab. I didn't really know who he was, in fact.

  What were you researching? This was after college?

  Right. We were studying glycoproteins, in the hope that they would prove the key to cell-cell recognition — a basic process that goes awry in cancer cells. I learned later that our entire line of inquiry was a dead end.

  I graduated with a degree in biochemistry and was accepted into medical school, but, ultimately, I did not want to be a doctor. The pre-med students I studied with in college were an unimpressive bunch of grinds. They would sabotage each other's experiments — so lame. And now they don't even make any money, at least not compared to a big-time comedy writer. Enjoy your free notepads, losers!

  When you were writing for Late Night did you have any idea of the impact the show was having on pop culture? When I interviewed Merrill Markoe, she claimed she was too inside to notice.

  We knew the show was making a splash, but the real impact on pop culture took years. It wasn't like a blockbuster movie, when you know how you're doing immediately. Some of our best jokes would air at 1:25 A.M., so it took a while.

  Did you find that the show was an easy fit for you as a writer, sensibility-wise?

  In retrospect, it was an ideal place for me to hone my skills, but I was a bit of a malcontent back then. I had grandiose aims. I didn't want Dave to repeat things, even if the audience loved them. I wanted to challenge the audience every night, stagger them with brilliance, blast them into a higher plane of existence. In other words, I didn't understand late-night television.

  Letterman was notorious for having a very low acceptance rate for jokes. How frustrating was this for you as a writer?

  Dave usually took the good stuff, and if he believed in a joke, and it didn't get much of a laugh, he would repeat it for his own amusement — almost like an incantation. I found that endearing.

  He would sometimes reject segments that were highly conceptual, or “writerly,” and we would get mad. But he knew what he needed out there. If a tightrope walker says, “This guy wire is loose,” you don't tell him he's wrong — you fix the guy wire.

  What year did you leave Late Night, and why?

  I left in late 1983, so I could work as a writer on Lorne Michaels's show on NBC, The New Show. Whoops!

  The New Show was a prime-time sketch show that only lasted a handful of episodes, but it's remembered quite fondly by those who watched it at the time.

  The show was a bit disorganized, but the writing staff was remarkable. I shared an office with Jack Handey, who taught me a ton about comedy.

  What specifically did he teach you?

  He showed me that hilarious runs could be created with simple, unpretentious language. He taught me to can the preamble and just to get to the funny part.

  I don't know if it ever aired, but Jack once wrote a Saturday Night Live sketch that was later an inspiration for the “Hurricane Neddy” episode of The Simpsons, where Homer builds a house for Ned [Season 8, Episode Eight]. The SNL sketch was about a shoemaker whose shop was failing. He got a big order for shoes, but couldn't fill it in time, so he collapsed in despair. As he slept, elves tiptoed in and made the shoes. When the shoemaker awoke, he was overjoyed, until he realized that the elves' workmanship was incredibly shoddy. Not only were the shoes undeliverable, but all of his materials had been wasted. As I recall, the sketch ended with a gunshot.

  It's very difficult to find video for The New Show, but I did read some funny sketches online. In one, John Candy plays a food repairman, who literally fixes food that had been broken, such as re-assembling shattered taco shells.

  I wrote that sketch, which was lifted by John Candy's gift s. I remember he was utterly exhausted when we taped it, and I thought it would be a disaster, but the camera went on and John just turned on the high beams. I was dancing with delight. The following week John was on a Mardi Gras float, and people were screaming “Food repairman!”

  Why didn't The New Show last?

  The Friday-night time-slot wasn't ideal, but the main problem was that it was a variety show. By that time, variety shows had become passé.

  And I suppose it didn't help that it ran against Falcon Crest.

  No, that show was a bulldozer.

  From The New Show you went to SNL in 1985. A lot of writers I've interviewed have expressed frustration with that show. What was your experience like?

  It was an exhilarating, frustrating, stressful, and indelible experience.

  You've been quoted as saying that your material was too “fringy” for SNL. What was so fringy about it?

  In r
etrospect, it was too conceptual. I didn't think enough about creating characters that the actors could play. My good friend Jim Downey, who was the head writer for SNL for many years, tried to point this out to me, but I simply couldn't adapt my style.

  If I could go back, I would emulate Jack Handey, who usually wrote pieces by himself — often for Randy Quaid or Phil Hartman, two gift ed and reliable performers.

  Most of the sketches I wrote were fatally flawed. I wrote a bit about a chalk factory, which was a twist on coal miners being covered in soot. These guys were covered in chalk dust. For some reason, I thought that would be funny. Maybe it aired, I don't even remember. I just remember fighting with the wardrobe person, because the chalk dust was getting on all the costumes for the other sketches.

  Can you remember any sketches you wrote that did make it to air?

  One that I liked had John Larroquette as a man who had just arrived in heaven. Dana Carvey played the angel who answered all of the nagging questions that John had in life. They went something like: “Was there one true religion that God wanted us to practice?” “Yes, Lutheran.” Or, “What ever happened to that $50 I got for graduation?” “Your uncle stole it.”

  I also wrote a lot of commercial parodies, including “Big Red,” about a Viking doll for kids that spun around and sprayed red dye everywhere, and “Handi-Off,” about a special over-the-counter acid that burned off any unwanted fingers.

  John Swartzwelder, who later went on to write more than fifty episodes of The Simpsons, worked with you at SNL. Can you remember any of his sketches?

  He and I were on the first season after Lorne returned in 1985. He wrote some crazy stuff. John's sketches stood out because they would always feature something strange, like a frozen cat.

  John's an enigma. Of all the writers, he was the only heavy smoker and the only hard-core conservative. He also owns the world's first baseball. Even among comedy weirdos, he stands out. He's irreplaceable.

  Where exactly does one buy the world's first baseball?

  I think he got it from an auction house for about the price of a car. How good a car, I don't know.

  What did he do with it?

  I assume it's in a safe-deposit box. The thing is disintegrating.

  What were your thoughts going into The Simpsons job? Did you think that it was merely a segue to something else?

  I thought it was a goofy little gig that would last a few months and pay some bills. I didn't even move my stuff out from Colorado.

  What had you been doing in Colorado?

  I was skiing, going to poetry readings, and trying to meet girls from the University of Colorado. For a long time I didn't have a car, and I would try to carry groceries home by hanging a plastic bag from each handlebar of my bike. Not recommended.

  And this was where you first created the humor magazine Army Man?

  Yeah. I was living in a condominium in Boulder. I didn't have many friends, and I needed an outlet.

  Army Man is a very interesting publication. There were only three issues produced in the late 1980s, all with a very low circulation, and yet the adoration comedy writers still feel toward it is amazing. Was there ever any idea, from your standpoint, that the magazine would become so beloved?

  No, and I'm embarrassed when people build it up as this monumental work of comedy. It was just a silly little escapade, never meant to be enshrined.

  What even gave you the idea to start Army Man? You were reaching millions of viewers through your television writing. So why go from that to putting out a magazine with a circulation of a few hundred?

  After all the heavy stakes of network television — especially live network television — a little vanity project with no expectations felt like a cool drink of limeade.

  I wonder if the continuing fascination with Army Man has to do with the fact that it was produced pre-Internet. It was not widely distributed, and it was (and still is) very underground and mysterious.

  The Internet is a wondrous beast, but it has a leveling effect that trivializes and cheapens writing. There's something substantial and even formidable about print. You can't just erase it with a button. A few people have posted Army Man excerpts online, which feels intrusive. I guess they think they're doing me a favor, but if I wanted it on there I'd do it myself.

  I used to read a lot of zines, and many of them were disappointing, but I was always respectful of the effort and passion required. Blogs seem more disposable to me, like a phone call.

  How many original copies do you think exist? How many did you originally send out?

  The first printing of Army Man No. 1 was two hundred copies — I later printed more. As far as No. 2 and No. 3, maybe a thousand. I still have lots of them in a storage locker. I should send them to a leper colony or something. They're not getting any funnier.

  The talent that you managed to amass for Army Man was impressive — Jack Handey, John Swartzwelder, Bob Odenkirk, and Roz Chast. It's almost a Who's Who for the next twenty years of humor writing.

  I just asked the people who made me laugh to contribute. I didn't realize they would become illustrious. And I think they sensed that I would not take advantage of their goodwill.

  How did these writers even know you were looking for submissions? For instance, how did you even know Roz Chast, whom I'm assuming you'd never worked with?

  I used The Riddler's method: skywriting.

  Roz is married to Bill Franzen, another contributor. I had to apologize to her, because her cartoons didn't reproduce as well as they did in The New Yorker. I knew nothing about printing.

  Did you have any editorial rules for the Army Man writers?

  No, I just had to like what they sent me. And that created problems — I wasn't paying anyone, so I would feel bad if I didn't use their submissions.

  Is it true that one of the reasons you were originally hired for The Simpsons was because Sam Simon had read the magazine and loved it? When reading the three issues of Army Man, it's very easy to see the Simpsons sensibility.

  Sam's an audacious guy. He'd worked with lots of comedy writers on other shows, but he didn't just hire a bunch of them. He brought in some fresh guns.

  Did you ever attempt to take Army Man national?

  I approached the former Monkee and television producer Michael Nesmith to invest in the magazine. He was very sweet. He said, “Yes, I could invest in Army Man, but is that what you really want? Isn't it fine the way it is?”

  And I had to admit it was.

  Had you seen the animated Simpsons shorts when they first appeared on The Tracey Ullman Show in the spring of 1987?

  No. Sam Simon sent me a compilation reel. I didn't envision a series there, and I unwisely turned down a writing job. In the fall of 1989, Sam gave me a second chance to hop aboard as a “creative consultant,” and the minute I arrived from Boulder I could feel the excitement.

  What type of excitement?

  We'd be laughing uncontrollably, and no dour adults would come running in to quell the party. The funniest stuff would actually get into the script, and onto the air.

  And now here you are, four-hundred–plus episodes later ….

  Somehow, the mix was right. The universe gave us a hug.

  It seems that from the very beginning, the writers for The Simpsons were left alone to do what they wanted.

  That's true. Sam and Matt Groening, who came up with the characters, were in charge. I never saw any network notes the entire time, except for censor and legal notes. If we thought it was funny, we did it.

  On a typical sitcom or animated show, every story must be approved by the network. I'm certain they would've shot down many of our best episodes.

  I'm not saying writers are infallible. I'm just saying that executives who don't understand comedy tend to zero in on the unfamiliar ideas — the freshest and most audacious jokes — and exterminate them. It's what they do. And then they go home.

  The show is perhaps the most writer-driven show ever on television. Every
thing has to be written — even the expressions. I would think that would be exciting for a writer, but also a liability. You're not able to have actors sell a joke that might be considered weak. Everything shows.

  We lean on the voice actors a lot, and they often bail us out of uninspired runs with inspired performances.

  Then again, I suppose you can pull off many jokes that would be impossible otherwise — such as dream sequences and characters being blown off toilets.

  Yes, that's a real luxury. The dispiriting thing in a live-action comedy is how cumbersome it all is. A little three-second gag in which a squirrel gets sucked into a vacuum cleaner could take hours to get right. So there's an unspoken pressure to cut that part and move on.

  Also, with live action, you have a limited number of sets — so scenes often take place in the wrong location. For instance, a couple who have just left a bizarre art exhibit would discuss the exhibit on their way home, not lying in bed later that night. But maybe the bedroom set is easier.

  Do you think that you can get away with jokes in animation that you wouldn't be able to get away with otherwise?

  We get away with murder, simply because our roughest material isn't threatening to people. A viewer expects volatile behavior from cartoon characters. From the time viewers are 3-years-old, they see animals lighting dynamite and whacking each other with boards. Some very disturbing material gets a pass.

  The Simpsons is one of the few shows that appeals to both kids and adults. Do you always try to write for both? Who's your intended audience?

  We usually write for ourselves and for our writer friends. But I like to imagine smart, troubled girls in the South Pacific finding solace in our work.

  We never actually say that The Simpsons is a children's show — much of the humor is too sophisticated for children.

  Most people dream about their work. Do you ever dream in animation?

  No, and I rarely dream about funny, whimsical things. Most of my dreams are horrifyingly realistic: creeps breaking into my house and stealing my possessions. Strangely, I'm never physically harmed in these home-invasion dreams. I wish someone could tell me what that means.