Onomatopoeia (on-o-mat-o-pee’-a): Using or inventing a word whose sound imitates that which it names (the union of phonetics and semantics).
My heart went “boom” and I collapsed on the floor. Clearly, this was the end. After a lifetime of eating fatty foods—especially ice cream, and, although technically not eating, downing a half liter of JohnnyWalker Black every day, not to mention smoking 2 packs of Marlboro 27’s per day. Eating, drinking, smoking, and now, being put on a stretcher and zoomed off to the hospital that was named after me: “Chuckles Memorial Hospital.” I was the world’s wealthiest clown. I had made billions acting like a stupid shit. I said stupid things. I did stupid things.
It all happened on my show “Mr. Chuckles Neighborhood.” It was modeled after the neighborhood I grew up in. I had to modify it significantly to make it suitable for kids. For example, Bus Stop Betty was a prostitute in my real neighborhood. In “Mr. Chuckles Neighborhood” she is Dr. Smith, a college English professor waiting for her bus to school. Then, there was “Fruit Stand Fredo” who ran a mafia-owned fruit stand where, in addition to fruit, he sold pot, Ecstasy, and LSD. He was also a loan shark who had half the neighborhood in his debt. Now, in “Mr. Chuckles Neighborhood,” he’s “Mr. Peachy.” He wears a white apron and sells only fruit, sometimes giving it away to homeless people. As you can see, “Mr. Chuckles Neighborhood” is pretty straight-laced.
“Jesus Christ—when’re we gonna get to the hospital?” A voice said “We got here 15 minutes ago. You’re dead. You’re laid out on a slab in the morgue. I wasn’t buying it—I could talk, I could hear voices, I could see, the only thing I couldn’t do was move. My wife walked in to the morgue to identify me: “Yup, that’s fat ass Chuckles. Goodbye shit-for-brains. Have fun in Manatee heaven.” I was devastated—I yelled at her but she couldn’t hear me. I needed a drink, but the voice refused. I was getting cold and asked for a blanket. “Nope,” the voiced responded. It also told me not worry, that I’d be checking out sometime before noon and heading to my next “destination.”
But holy shit! I felt an electric shock and I sat up, I was alive! I couldn’t resist doing a heart attack joke:
“A priest has a heart attack and is rushed to hospital. When he wakes up, he is being raced through the corridors on a gurney. Disoriented, he asks, “am I in heaven?” “No, replies the nurse. “We’re just taking a shortcut through the children’s ward.”
Nobody laughed. The joke couldn’t have been that bad, I thought. Priest jokes are usually good for a laugh. Then it dawned on me: I might be in hell—a place where nobody thought I was funny. So, I tried another joke: “Why can’t you hear a pterodactyl going to the bathroom? Because the “P” is silent.” The kid in scrubs in the corner holding an empty jar labeled “Comic’s Brain” gave a short giggle that sounded almost like a cough. Nobody else laughed—they all glared at him and he cowered. Now I could see what was going on. I had unexpectedly come back to life, and they wanted my brain for science. Now, they were going to kill me. I swore, if I ever got off the gurney, I would kill them!
I was free of my restraints when I woke up in a sunny hospital room with a view of the park outside. There was a tumbler of scotch and a double-cheeseburger on my bed tray. I was alone. I was getting to the point where I wanted my death to resolve itself. “Am I dead or alive?” I asked my empty room. “He’s alive!” my wife yelled as she walked through the door. “Finally!” I yelled, full of joy. “Duke and I are here to get you out of this mess,” said my wife. Duke stepped through the door. It was the kid who had been holding the “Comic’s Brain” jar in the morgue. I noticed my wife had a cute little chrome-plated .25 auto in her hand. She started blabbering at me and hurling obscenities. Suddenly, three police officers burst into the room, guns drawn. One of them handcuffed Duke and the other one shot my wife and put her down forever—she tried to shoot him, but her gun had misfired. Too bad.
I didn’t press charges against Duke. He works for me now as Dick Doormat on “Mr. Chuckles Neighborhood.” Before guests are allowed into my Joke Shop, they’re required to wipe their feet on him.
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).
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