#576 Powdered Nose

The trick to being a humorist is to be an idiot.
The other day I went into this store called the Blind Depot. Inside there was just a bunch of canes and dog harnesses and stuff.
Just kidding. There were window treatments.
But still. I’m thinking there has to be a better name.
All my life certain things have ended up being funny because my observations were first twisted—on the way in. My perception skills are somehow fundamentally flawed.
There was this sign at a tire dealer and it said Gas Shocks. My first thought was. Yeah, especially in mixed company. I got out my camera and filmed it and a TV show that ran 13 years was born.
I’m not sure when my dysfunction started but it was probably when I was a kid. I took things too literally.
I remember my Grandmother excusing herself from the table at a restaurant and muttering quietly that she had to go powder her nose. When she returned I shouted out like all five year olds: “Grandma, your nose still looks shiny. Where’s the powder?”
My grandmother was mortified. My parents laughed until they cried and the whole thing had me mystified. Then I got in trouble because no one would tell me what was funny and I kept yammering on and on about it.
I had a similar problem when at a later restaurant excursion my dad said he had to go talk to a man about a racehorse.
You can imagine my little kid disappointment when he returned to the table empty-handed. I put my foot in it again and asked loudly whether the man was going to sell us a racehorse.
It got another big laugh—this time from the table next to ours.
My dad just shrugged his shoulders good-naturedly.
On a roll, I then pointed out that his barn door was open.
At that point, equestrian topics were suddenly dropped.
My mom shushed me, my dad turned red and I was left to apply my tender young brain to the contemplation of the ups and downs of comedy.
Even today, I can’t see a racehorse with a powdered nose without laughing out loud.
America ya gotta love it