The Aardvark who Made a Comeback

Once there was an aardvark who’d enjoyed some success as a stand-up comic, partly because it was the right time for his special brand of political humor and partly because he could be paid in termites; but, time is not kind to comics and the aardvark fell out of fashion; in fact, there was a rather cruel meme that showed him at a microphone with the word “FAIL” at the bottom. He was not only finished… he was Dane-Cook-finished. Until…

One morning, while he was looking through an old scrap book, the phone rang. The aardvark picked up on the fourth ring.

“Hello?”

“Hello. Is this Aaron the Aardvark”

“Not anymore”, the aardvark corrected, “I changed my name when I converted to the church of Our Lady of Brinksmanship”

“So, I can’t call you ‘Aaron’, anymore?”

“If you do, I will KILL YOU”

“If you kill me, I’ll be dead and you’ll be in prison. Kind of a crazy threat to make”

“You’re right… I formally renounce my faith. Who is this?”

“Your agent”, answered the voice.

“I don’t have an agent”, Aaron snapped.

“Well, I was fifteen years ago… and I found you a gig”

“I don’t know”, hedged the aardvark, “I’m working on my autobiography”

“When will that be finished?”

“After I’m dead… DUH! You don’t think I want my autobiography half-finished”

The agent sighed. “Why not take this gig and you’ll have something to put in your book?”

Aaron thought for a moment, “Well, my publisher keeps telling me that keeping track of my parking tickets and bowel movements isn’t going to sell books. Where is this gig?”

“I’ll give you the details at my office”

“Where’s your office?”

“Okay, its a Starbucks”, the agent confessed, “The one three blocks north of your apartment”

“I’m practically there”…

☺

Aaron recognized his agent, although time had not been kind to him. He was nursing a cold cup of coffee and tearing at a napkin when the comic arrived. He held out his hand when Aaron arrived but the aardvark showed him his claws, “Better not. Dangerously sharp eviscerating nails”

“Oops, I remember now. That was a lot of stitches they gave me…”

“So, where’s the gig?”

The agent took a sip from his coffee. “First, let me say that they are giving you three times your normal rate”

Aaron brightened, “That sounds great”

“and, all involved are VERY excited”

“Great”

“And, it’s on an island in the Pacific”

“Better and better”

The agents smile fell away, “But… it’s at a leper colony”

“Oh”

“There’s no danger of your catching the disease”, the agent added, “But, you can’t make any jokes about leprosy”

The comic stood up, knocking his chair over, “But, leprosy jokes are HALF MY ACT… and the other half are jokes about Spiro Agnew”

“You’ll have to use other material”

“I DON’T HAVE ANY OTHER MATERIAL”

“None?”

Aaron considered, “Well, I have about seven minutes of material on Sudden Infant Death Syndrome”

The agent blanched, “We’ll have to put that into the ‘Maybe Pile’”

“I’ve got some other stuff in my files. I’ll try to cobble something together, tonight. If I can come up with forty-five minutes of non-leper material, am I in?”

The agent said excitedly, “Yes!”

☺

And, so the Aardvark created what he thought was comedy gold, submitted it to his agent and in two weeks was in the “Green Room” of a leper colony. He was a little concerned how his act would fly with a group whose lives were a living hell; but, he’d heard that David Lee Roth was a hit on the same island, so the bar seemed low enough. Aaron was wearing his trademark purple suit and purple tie. The stage was lit up so brightly, the audience was only a sound. And, he delivered his monologue…

…and he could DO NO WRONG. Laughs at every line… applause-laughs throughout. He was subtle, insightful and irreverent. The forty-five minutes became an hour and a half and the audience was still with him; but, he eventually ran out of material and said his “good nights” to the crowd. His agent strode out to the microphone with a gigantic smile. “Everyone, give Aaron the Aardvark a hand”

When the first diseased hand was thrown onto the stage, Aaron had no idea what it was… but as the disembodied limbs hit his face and torso, knocking him to the ground, he reflected on the poor choice of words his agent had used before succumbing to his injuries…

Moral: Sometimes life gives you a big hand; other times you just get the finger.