Lost Yuks

Alas, my car of eight years has gone to the climate-controlled garage in the sky. While cleaning out the accumulated detritus of life spanning most of the past decade, half a dozen jobs, and four homes in two states 1,600 miles apart (OK, I'm measuring from the cities I lived in, which are at opposite ends of the states involved), I came across some unexpected treasures. For example, I recovered a fragile, elderly edition of Bach's chorale harmonizations, which I had given up for lost years ago and which, miraculously, is only a tiny bit worse for wear.

To a lesser degree, I also rejoiced to recover two fragments of a comic monologue I have been composing on scraps of paper during my nomadic wanderings of the past eight years. The following bit, for example, continues to develop the character of the drunken redneck introduced earlier in this thread. It's not autobiographical humor, mind you; I've never been married. I just thought the humor of it worked with the character I was creating.

I don't remember the last time my wife and I made love. The reason is simple: I was drunk at the time.

And the time before that. And the time before that. In fact, I may never have spent a sober night with her. It isn't that I need alcohol to find her attractive... but it sure helps.

She's a drinker too. Our relationship is practically based on the drink. In fact, we registered our wedding at the liquor store.

Of a more recent vintage is this bit, which may either have been part of a two-character sketch or, again, a fragment of my redneck character's ruminations:

UNCLE: Where have you been? I expected you an hour ago.

NEPHEW: I got lost on the way here. Been driving around the neighborhood.

UNCLE: What about the directions I gave you? Didn't I tell you to turn left at the swimming pool?

NEPHEW: I didn't see a swimming pool.

UNCLE: It's right over there, see?

NEPHEW: Well, it's kinda hard to see it with that big water-slide standing in front of it.

UNCLE (smacking the nephew upside the head): Where did you think the water-slide leads to? A cement slab? A pit full of sharpened stakes?

OK, so I'm not quite ready to write for Saturday Night Live. But it's a start, eh?