by Jeff Dunham
Jeff: You know Ed McMahon, don’t you?
Walter: Oh yeah… stop sendin’ me all your damn mail!
After a huge laugh and a big cackle from Carson, Walter added, “Don’t you have some envelopes to lick?”
I once met Jerry Seinfeld backstage at the Comedy & Magic Club and we talked about doing stand-up on The Tonight Show. He made a point that only a true veteran of stand-up would have been able to come up with, and it was this: “It’s not your first time doing stand-up with Johnny that’s important. It’s your twelfth.”
Seinfeld was talking about material. In other words, lots of guys could make it far enough to get booked once. But those who had what it took needed to keep coming back with new, fresh material, and kill every time. I took Jerry’s words to heart and knew that if I were to become anything more than a one-hit wonder, I needed to do more than drink cranberry juice and make a dummy talk. I needed to write better material and jokes for the characters. I later realized Johnny liked Walter so much because he was a good character with a point of view, and attitude, and good jokes.
As this all started to sink in, I began to no longer feel the need to amaze the audience with technical vent crap. I needed to make audiences laugh so they would come back for more. After a while, my thinking came down to that one sentence that was becoming my mantra: You can amaze an audience once or twice, but you can make them laugh for a lifetime. At this point, I was now not simply a ventriloquist, but I was becoming a stand-up comic who just happened to use ventriloquism as a vehicle for the comedy.
Bubba J.: I don’t think you can really make folks laugh for a lifetime because their faces would start to hurt and they might have a job to get to and you can’t drive and laugh unless you see someone driving really funny, but I never seen that.
Jeff: I didn’t mean it literally.
Bubba J.: Is this book almost over?
I faced one of the most difficult show-business decisions of my life in the early summer of 1991. A couple of weeks before, one of Johnny Carson’s sons, Richard, had been tragically killed in a car accident. Richard was a photographer. Johnny was badly shaken by his son’s death, and had taken two weeks off from doing The Tonight Show. But he was scheduled to come back on the air the next night.
Jim called and said, “Jeff, I need you to do Johnny a favor.”
“Uh, sure,” I said. “Anything.”
Jim continued: “Johnny has put together some of Richard’s best photos, and he wants to do a tribute to his son’s work and show them during the broadcast. But if he can’t bring himself to do the piece and bails on it, he’d like you to be on standby ready to do six minutes.”
I sat there stunned, trying to take in every aspect of what I was being asked to do. Events can alter an audience, and certainly this first time back on the air for Johnny was going to be a somber night. How in the world was I supposed to get onstage, much less in front of America, and make everyone laugh when for the rest of the night they were probably going to be on the verge of tears, feeling for the King of Late Night after he’d lost a child? I was supposed to make everyone forget all that and tell jokes with a dummy next to me? How in the world—?
“Jim,” I said, “that’s crazy! Doing comedy during that show? Can’t you—”
He interrupted me. “Do it for Johnny.”
I thought about it for a few more long seconds and finally responded. “No problem,” I said. “I’ll have the set ready that I’ve been working on for you.”
“Thank you,” Jim replied.
I showed up at the normal time, and went through hair and makeup. It was the oddest thing to be sitting there, literally praying that I wouldn’t be on The Tonight Show that night.
Doc and the band started up, Ed did his thing, and I never heard the crowd. Jim walked into the open door of my dressing room and said, “Good news: Johnny’s doing the piece. You can relax. Johnny wants to thank you, so stick around after the show.”
These were of course not the circumstances I’d imagined for my first off-camera conversation with Johnny Carson, but it had been an honor to have been asked to be there and be put in that position. Afterward, Johnny thanked me and I expressed my condolences. As I was told, it was very rare for him to be seen after a show, and this day was one of the exceptions.
A few weeks later, Jim McCawley called with a most interesting query. “Do you do birthday parties?” he asked.
I was a little taken aback. “Birthday parties? Seriously?” I asked.
“Not like kid parties. Adult birthday parties,” he said.
“NO,” I answered bluntly. I had hoped he was calling me for a last-minute booking with Johnny, and a fun one this time.
“Well, Majel Barrett called, and she’s looking for some entertainment for Gene’s seventieth birthday party,” he stated.
“Gene Roddenberry?” I spat. “THE Gene Roddenberry?”
Any Trek fan knew who the creator of Star Trek was, and that he married Majel, known mainly as the voice of the computer on every Starship Enterprise of all the series up to that point, plus the movies. She had of course made guest appearances as an actress on a few episodes too.
“Yes, the Star Trek Gene Roddenberry,” Jim replied. “She’s having the party in her backyard, and of course she’s making it a big event, and she just wondered if I knew a good act to entertain about a hundred people. I figured you’d done that kind of thing before. You’d work better than a straight stand-up.” I didn’t know whether that was a compliment or another slight, but I didn’t care.
“When?” I asked.
A few weeks later, I found myself in Gene Roddenberry’s backyard, surrounded by everyone Trek… except Shatner. Bummer.
I told myself that I would not ask for autographs, and that I would just play it cool. For the act, I did my typical “corporate” set, and it went fine. I kept it fairly clean, and Walter was the hit with that particular crowd. I had been invited to stay for dinner, and of course didn’t pass that up.
Many of the partygoers were people from other areas of Gene’s life, but there were enough Star Trek faces there to make me feel like a kid at an amusement park. I found myself sitting almost back-to-back with James Doohan, otherwise known as Scotty. Whoa! What turn did my life take that allowed this to happen? For the non-geeks in the crowd, Scotty was also known as Montgomery Scott, the Enterprise’s chief engineer, from the original 1960s television series. As any fan of the show knows, Scotty saved the Enterprise and the entire crew multiple times under impossible odds. I think he even saved the entire universe once or twice.
Peanut: You really are a big geek.
Jeff: I know.
Anyway, the only thing separating Scotty and me was one of those eight-foot-tall gas heaters. He was at one table, and I was at the one right next to him, and the heater was between us at our backs.
Let me set up the next part of the story by saying that not only was I a Star Trek fan, but somewhere in my heart, I knew these characters. I didn’t have Star Trek sheets, or learn the Klingon language, or anything that extreme, but I had watched all the episodes of the original series in syndication since the mid-1970s multiple times, and I’d never missed an episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation, which was on the air at this time.
At some point near the middle of dinner, I heard a little commotion behind me, and saw people across the round table from me looking wide-eyed at a spot a few feet above my head. I turned around to look, then my gaze went up, and lo and behold, the gas heater had caught on fire in a very wrong way. It was billowing black smoke from all sides and at the top and flames were starting to engulf all the upper pieces. People started to yell. And then, honest-to-God, the first thought that went through my mind was, “It’s okay… SCOTTY’s here!”
Well, who do you think the first guy was to panic and yell louder than everyone, and shove chairs out of the way so he could get clear of the danger? Scotty. Oh, dang. Something was destroyed deep inside me in that moment.
&nb
sp; That was the first time I accepted that Star Trek wasn’t real.
Peanut: No doubt about it: You are simply a big, GIANT geek.
Bubba J.: Even I’m getting embarrassed now.
The evening wasn’t over, however. I met a few cast members, including George Takei (Sulu), Patrick Stewart (Capt. Jean-Luc Picard), and Brent Spiner (Data). As the party was dispersing, I saw the two of them standing alone, chatting. Like I said, I didn’t want to be a dork or a nuisance, but I thought I had to at least say hello to Captain freakin’ Picard. I walked up and they both turned to greet me. I stuck out my hand and first shook Brent’s, then Patrick’s. Then I said, “I don’t want to bother you guys like an idiot fan, but I just wanted to say how much I really enjoy your work.” Without missing a beat, Patrick Stewart looked me straight in the eye and without betraying a bit of insincerity, in that sterling and magnificent British baritone Shakespearean voice, said, “And I yours.” It was like I was five years old and had just met Santa.
Walter: Pull yourself together.
Jeff: What?
Walter: You’re having a geek-gasm.
In early 1992, Dick Clark was producing a new show for NBC called Hot Country Nights. It was a prime-time musical variety hour that featured country music stars. In addition to music, they built in a short segment for stand-up comedy. The show would be taped on the set right across the hallway from Carson’s, and was also the set, by the way, that would eventually become The Tonight Show stage for Jay Leno.
Jim McCawley had been chosen to book the stand-up talent. I was one of the first comics he called. Once again, he thought Walter would be perfect for the show.
I was booked for only one appearance; and since the show wasn’t live, I felt zero pressure. I was introduced by one of the country artists after he’d done his number, and there Walter and I stood doing stuff we’d written just for the show:
Walter: I only listen to country music when I’m doing my taxes.
Jeff: Why’s that, Walter?
Walter: It’s just nice hearin’ about folks who are a hell of a lot worse off than I am.
It couldn’t have gone over better. The laughs were big and the applause breaks were long. But as my segment was coming to a close, I realized I hadn’t asked whether I was supposed to stand right there as they went to commercial, or whether I was to walk offstage. When Walter and I got to the end of our bit, I decided just to stand there and hopefully they would go to graphics or a commercial or whatever. Well, the segment ended, the applause died down, and there I stood. Keep in mind that Dick was to the side, just off camera, for all the audience to see. He and the director would talk to the crowd and the performers over the PA, giving direction.
Walter (to the crowd): Shut up, we’re finished!
Jeff: I didn’t find out, was I supposed to walk off? I have no idea what I was supposed to do.
Director: You did perfect!
Walter: Well…
Dick (booming voice over PA): YOU STAY AND WALTER WALKS OFF!
That got a big laugh from the crowd, as they all knew who said it. Then after a nice pregnant pause, Walter stated as sarcastically as I could muster…
Walter: Oh, Mr. Clark’s a comedian, heh heh heh.
Don’t forget that this was the Dick Clark—very much an American icon and a living legend in show business. On this show in particular, he was respected and revered, and most of the staff called him Mr. Clark. I was the guy with the curmudgeonly dummy. So that last line from Walter got a huge, long laugh from the crowd. As it continued, I just stood there, looking embarrassed, picking lint off my jacket, wondering if I’d just shot myself in the foot, never again to work for the legendary Dick Clark. I looked uncomfortable, and I was, despite the big laugh. Then as the applause and laughter was dying down, I honestly couldn’t help it.… Walter topped himself.
“Don’t FUCK with the puppet, DICK.” Mr. Clark actually hit his head on the table in front of him, he was laughing so hard. The ensuing conversation included a few more digs by both Dick and Walter, but the exchange was another future-changing moment in time that I hadn’t planned or rehearsed.
Dick and the other producers decided to have me back for nine of the twelve episodes. Each week Walter and I talked to one of the top country stars on the show. The twist was that I loved country music, but Walter hated it and didn’t know or care who any of the stars were. We gave the musical artist a loosely written script and we did it pretty much unrehearsed in front of the audience as the cameras rolled.
One of my favorite moments was with Willie Nelson.
Walter: Actually, I’m a big fan of yours. It’s good to see you have a sense of humor.
Willie: This is true. I have a sense of humor.
Walter: Yeah, you got a sense of humor. IRS took everything else.
I was now touring as a headliner. I of course never worked with other headliners, so most of the other acts I saw were good middle and so-so openers. Only a couple of times did I go to clubs to see other acts, but one weekend at the Comedy & Magic Club, another ventriloquist I knew was playing, so I went to see him. Headlining that night was some new up-and-comer named Jim Carrey. This was just before In Living Color and Jim was doing stand-up, opening for big names and doing his thing in clubs. He was beginning to headline here and there.
Well, I had the fortune of sitting near the front of the audience that night. Hermosa Beach is just south of Los Angeles, and the audiences there aren’t your typical LA crowd. There are a lot of tourists and beach folks that end up there at night, so it’s a nice cross section of demographics.
The opener and then ventriloquist went up, and then it was time for Jim. I knew nothing about him, and I don’t think at that time much of the audience had ever heard of him either. All I remember is that the place was too small for the personality of Jim Carrey. If you’ve seen him perform live, or if you can remember some of his wilder antics in his earlier movies or of course on In Living Color, that’s what he was like that night. With all the wild faces and loud voices and crazily huge mannerisms, he was just too big for the room. He was all over the place, and I’d never seen it happen before, but he actually frightened the crowd into a dead silence. It was mind-boggling. You could feel people actually pushing themselves back in their seats, trying to get away. My first thought was, “What is wrong with this guy?” In that small room with the folks who weren’t ready for it, the genius of Jim Carrey came off almost as mental illness. It wasn’t until later that America began to appreciate just how twisted and talented the guy really is.
All of my TV appearances continued to build an amazing and loyal following of fans. As I toured coast-to-coast incessantly, folks would come to the clubs, wanting to see the little guys that they’d seen on TV. Walter and Peanut began to evolve as my material became much more character based, versus being simply made up of funny jokes. The act was taking on the feeling of a sitcom that had been on the air for a couple of seasons—the audiences knew and loved the characters and when I introduced them at each point in the show, they would get more applause than me. It was awesome.
Every comic who’s worked the road for any length of time has a handful of bad road stories, and I am no exception. A guy who was my opening act for many years and became one of my best friends was Gary Brightwell. When we met, he was the house emcee at the Comedy & Magic Club, and he also booked much of the talent. Fueled by his wry sense of humor, Gary had kept a collection of the absolute worst vent promo pictures possible and he had these photos plastered all over his office. I laughed every time I looked in.
Gary had learned really well how to take a completely dead crowd and get them laughing and ready for the ensuing acts, but while working with me, he had also become my informant of sorts. Whatever club we were in, there was always a local emcee, and Gary would be the middle. After he’d done his bit, he’d come back to me and report on the crowd, noting what kind of mood the audience was in, if they were judgmental, conservative, drunk, or whatever. He
would also let me know if there were any troublesome folks in the crowd that I needed to be aware of, such as individual drunks, or hecklers that wouldn’t give up… that kind of thing.
Anyway, one night at the Improv in Brea, California, Gary came backstage and told me that there was one particular guy in the middle of the room toward the back who was being extra-obnoxious. The club seated about four hundred folks, was packed that night, and booze was flowing. Managing the club that evening was one of the co-owners, Robert Hartmann. I had known Robert for a few years as he had come up in the Improv chain from dishwasher to manager, to now owning some of the clubs. He and I were about the same age and he would eventually become one of my managers and another of my best friends.
It was Saturday night’s second show, the most packed show of the week. Robert and I had an agreement that if anyone became unruly and started to heckle or interrupt the show, I would give the person two chances with my own heckler comebacks. If after those two shots, the guy (or girl) didn’t shut up and I began to ignore them, that would be the signal to kick his (or her) ass out. Robert was always concerned that both audience and artist remained happy and that order was maintained in his clubs. He would stop at next to nothing to ensure a good night for as many folks as possible. That meant no bullshit. After Gary had finished his time and while the emcee was making some announcements and getting ready to introduce me, Gary ran backstage to tell me about the drunk. He told me where the guy was and that he was laughing obnoxiously after everyone else had stopped and that he was making catcalls and goofy noises. Robert had heard the guy too, and I just reiterated our system: two times, then out on the third.