LAUGHTER: (noun) When a smile has an orgasm

Hey, remember MAD magazine? What, me worry? I read MAD“? Alfred E. Newman? “

When I discovered MAD back in junior high, it was like The Holy Grail to my annoying little prepubescent, die-laughing-at-farts stage of immaturity.

I can recall that back in junior high some of my buddies’ moms frowned hard on MAD magazine, one even going so far as actually forbidding her son to even look at them. (Yeah, he had to sneak peeks at such porn over at my house, but only when his mom was safely out of town.)

We didn’t have the phrases “helicopter moms” or “the dumbing down of America” back in the fifties, but that particular periodical seemed to strike disgust in the hearts and minds of those humorless moms who’d already prematurely hitched their fifth graders’ wagons to the Harvard or Bust star.

I didn’t get it then and I still don’t get it now, not really. I mean, did MAD damage me? Quite the contrary. Sure, it bent me, but in a good way. What it did is teach me about the power and value of satire, which I quickly learned to emulate. It taught me the joys of puns. The joys of poetry, as well (well, considering the source, I guess… doggerel would be the more correctly descriptive terminology at that stage of my development). And despite some parents’ negative opinion of said magazine, by very early on it had sent me well on my way to becoming a wordsmith, a writer, and a serious lifelong reader. So no, my MAD years certainly didn’t hamstring me literarily.

Oh, I admit I was a mediocre student in school (in most classes that is, but never in English!). True, I’m one of those who became the solid scholar after getting my bachelor’s degree. But the truth is I was an “English major” before I actually became an English major.

But OK. Time for me to get down to brass tacks, to nail down the theme of this post. So yeah, what’s the actual theme here? Well to begin with, ever hear of one… Dr. Demento? No? OK:

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FROM WIKIPEDIA: “When Barret Hansen, better known as Dr. Demento, recently ended his weekly show, he had spent 55 years spinning weird, silly, or otherwise strange songs on the radio or online. No mere fringe figure, he was an influential figure in American comedy and one of the most important cultural libertarians of his era.

That might seem far-fetched to people who grew up in a post-SNL, post-Seinfeld world. But in the early 1970s, all that lay in the future. Television shows still had to pass strict censorial review to be aired, and the same code policed much of what could be heard on mainstream radio. Hansen’s program pushed against those strictures.

Listeners never knew what Hansen might play. One moment might bring a sweet, old novelty song like the Playmates’ “Beep Beep” about a “little Nash Rambler” that turned out to be more powerful than the Cadillac it was racing. The next moment you might hear a risqué song about sex, like Ruth Wallis’ “Davy’s Dinghy” (it’s not about his boat). There was drug humor, from the relatively tame “Friendly Neighborhood Narco Agent” to a mid-’90s parody of “The Devil Went Down to Georgia” called “The Devil Went Down to Jamaica” (“Johnny roll a ball of hash, and make sure it’s the bomb/’Cause the devil’s got the kind of stuff they smoked in Vietnam”). “Cows With Guns,” about bovines revolting against slaughter under the leadership of Cow Tse-tung, would compete with classic comic songs from Spike Jones and Tom Lehrer.

COWS WITH GUNS by Dana Lyons

So in short, all I really want to do here is to be your Dr. Demento. Just for a day. I wanna play being a DJ, just for you. And I’ve selected 13 recordings right here from my collection of funny-bone novelties, and I’m sincerely hoping you give my humble collection a shot. I believe we’re all in dire need of some smiles here in the world of 2026. So… whattaya say? Huh? You game?????

(Click below before scrolling for some healthy little belly laughs)

By the way, Dr. Demento helped bring “Weird Al” Yankovic to national attention.

Dr. D and Weird Al

OK, but the theme here is not to be Dr. Demento per se, but the genre of the recordings he was known for collecting and sharing: novelty songs. Humorous little, often-one-hit wonders, all very much molded in the same vein as MAD magazine’s satirical humor.

Dr. D was a Pied Piper of Hamelin to me over a sizeable span of my younger days.

So please, indulge me. Buckle up my friend. Sit back and enjoy what I’m about to share with you. You’re going for a ride.

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Most of you are probably familiar with the artist, Peter Sellers, who played Inspector Clouseau in the original Pink Panther franchise. He was also featured prominently in the political satire and black comedy film, Doctor Strangelove Or : How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb.

So check him out in this one..

SHE LOVES YOU (BEATLES’ COVER) by Peter Sellers

OK. So, moving right along. Here’s another. And I seriously doubt George Carlin needs an introduction. Enjoy,

ICE BOX MAN by George Carlin

THE HOCKEY SONG by Warren Zevon

Now when I think of Warren Zevon, “Wererwolves of London” is the first song that pops into my mind. “The Hockey Song,” however, is a much lesser known ballad, but even more creative and humorous in my own humble opinion. I’m always surprised at how many tell me they’ve never heard it.

But you know, even if you’re not into hockey, I’m betting this one will score a smile on your face…

But now for something completely different:

THE SONG OF THE SEWER by Art Carney

The actor, Art Carney, played Ed Norton, Ralph Cramden’s (Jackie Gleason’s) city sewer-cleaner sidekick on the 1950s sitcom, The Honeymooners. This one-hit wonder of his however surprisingly climbed nearly to the top of the charts back in 1955. Novelty songs can sometimes do that.

(I apologize for poor quality of the algorhithm-generated captions in many of these videos. Right from the start, “I work in a sewer” gets displayed as “I wake in a sewer.” But whatta you gonna do?)

This next one is absolutely insane. It was recorded in Mr. White’s hometown of Lynn, Massachusetts, which you’ll be able to quickly recognize by his Massachusetts accent and by the story itself.

Don White is an award-winning American folk singer/songwriter, comedian, author, and storyteller from Lynn, Massachusetts. I once performed a cover of this one at an open-mic, and because of the lyrics… suffice it to say it was a big hit.

THE BALLAD OF LIJAH THE PRECOCIOUS ORCHARD QUEEN by Don White

(Ditto on the poor captions.)

THE MUSHROOM STORY by Todd Snider (a football story??)

According to a Rolling Stone obituary, Todd Snider was a witty, sarcastic, and sometimes dark singer/songwriter whose genre was labelled alt-country. He wasn’t the most successful artist to come out of Nashville, but he had the knack for becoming the favorite artist of hardcore music fans.

And now, Happy Halloween:

DINNER WITH DRAC PT. 1 by John Zacherle

When you think of Halloween music, very like it’s “The Monster Mash” that automatically comes to mind. I’ve always found The Mash entertaining, but “Dinner With Drac” is a close second, in my humble opinion. Take a listen.

FLUSHED FROM THE BATHROOM OF YOUR HEART by Johnny Cash

Old Johnny Cash needs no introduction whatsoever. But he did put out a handful of well-known novelty songs in his lifetime. Like “Boy Named Sue” (written by Shel Silverstein). and “That Dirty Old Egg Suckin’ Dog.” But this one I actually found useful each year when I was teaching my freshman classes about similes and metaphors. I always referred to this one as The Metaphor Song.

IN SPITE OF OURSELVES by John Prine and Iris Dement

OK. here’s a perennial hoot, on the slightly risque side. John Prine himself explains this one in his introduction.

BLACK DENIM TROUSERS AND MOTORCYCLE BOOTS by Vaughn Monroe

OK. And long before “Leader of the Pack,” this old badass motorcycle ballad hit the top 100. This is the one that back in ’55 inspired me to clothespin an ace of spades card straight into the spokes of my bicycle to produce that desirable revving motorcycle roar as I pedaled. Yep. On the sidewalks of Dover-Foxcroft, I would “transform” into The Terror of Highway 101.”

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THIS OLD GUITAR Part II: Hello. I’m Johnny Cash

The subject of my most recent post was my mother’s old acoustic, six-string, arch-top guitar that had been lying around and gathering dust in our house since Ma’s 1940s country and western band heydays. That, and even more so, the almost fairy tale effect it ended up having on a couple of young boys during the early ’60s. Because that’s when I toted it all the way out to the Mallett homestead in Sebec, where it fell into the hands and creative imaginations of high school sophomore Neil and his sixth-grade brother, David Mallett. And then…

Ta-DAH! The Mallett Brothers duo was born!

And over the next few years, I was so very fortunate to be in a position to witness, and often even accompany, those troubadours as they entertained their growing fans with their many live performances; not to mention often catching their records playing on the radio or watching their television broadcasts. It was amazing. And I don’t care who, or how many others, would claim the same thing, I knew that I was their greatest, and longest lasting, fan.

By that time, I’d started flirting with freshman Phyllis Raymond. And the heavens knew that I was wishing for something extra to boost my image in her eyes. And then (abra cadabra!) an unexpected divine gift just seemed to fall right into my lap!

I’d met Neil in the school lobby one morning as usual just before school started.

“You’re not gonna believe this!” he told me with an excited grin.

What?

Johnny Cash is coming to the Bangor Auditorium!

Whoa! No shit!?” That was news! “I mean, Wow!”

“Not only that! Red and I are gonna be opening for him!” (‘Red’ being the family nickname for David. They all had nicknames, all the brothers. Bub, Mose, and believe it or not, Neil’s was ‘Ike.’)

What!? You are not! NO WAY!” That was the most unbelievable thing I’d ever heard.

“We really are!”

“That’s just crazy! But… how!?

“Well, it’s not gonna be just us. A bunch of local musicians have been invited to play too.”

Wow!

And sure enough, there it was. That very day, right there in the Bangor Daily News that morning!

At that time, I had no idea then who George Jones, June Carter, or the others were, nor did I care. All I could think of was… this was a potential Date Made in Heaven! I couldn’t wait to pass Phyllis my note reading, “How would you like me to take you to see Johnny Cash in person??? I can make that happen!”

Can you imagine how cocky I felt, writing that? How manful I was feeling? How… lucky? Me thinking the only dates Phyllis had ever been on were (A) meeting up with somebody at the Rec Center or (B) being walked to some crummy high school play with me. Because like me, she was living in Nowheres-ville. But… come on! I mean, Johnny Cash! She’d have to be looking at me now as somebody interesting, you know? Somebody with connections. Somebody so… upperclassman. Like, maybe she was thinking, Who knows? Maybe Tommy will be getting us tickets to see… ELVIS next??? You never knew.

It was cold and raining hammers and nails on the night of the concert (I just stole a Tom Waits’ phrase there– I didn’t make that up). I’d only had my license for a couple of weeks, and I’d logged practically zero hours of night-time driving, so my driving was a little iffy, but still I was pushing it as fast as the speed limit allowed because we’d gotten off to a late start. We rolled into the auditorium parking lot, threw open the car doors, and ran (holding hands) through the rain to the main entrance!

Inside, I quickly pushed my three hard-earned dollar bills in through the ticket-lady’s window (and I mean, can you believe only a buck-fifty for a major concert???!!!). Already we were catching the faraway-upstairs-strains of David and Neil belting out “Tear After Tear,” so we flew up three flights like a couple of Hollywood lovers while the final movie credits were rolling through the happy ending of some big romantic movie!

We popped out into a gigantic balcony packed with Johnny Cash fans and, sure enough, way down there on the main floor, far away and looking tiny, were David and Neil harmonizing, picking, strumming, and just sounding so damn good.

They got to perform more numbers than I ever would have expected they’d be allowed, considering the size of the line-up slated to play after them. Probably it was because the audience was so into them, judging by the wild applause and whistling. They had fans from all over the state of Maine by that time. I felt so proud of them. And so blessed to have them as my friends.

It was a night to remember for them of course, but also for me. A handful of incidents, some of which I saw for myself and some which I learned from the Malletts who witnessed them first-hand backstage, remain logged in the memory-album of my brain.

A cute, though insignificant, one occurred while Neil and David were performing on stage. I was keeping my eyes glued right on them, so I didn’t miss it. I think it was David, but it could have just as well been Neil (David, I think). (Whichever.) Both of them were down there singing, picking, and strumming their hearts out when (bink!) like a glitch in the matrix, someone’s guitar pick launched from the strings like a tiddlywink. Sparkling in the spotlight’s beam over the heads of the audience, it arced out and way like an indoor micro-meteor! It was cool to see the performers do their double double-take the instant that happened, but then soldier right on like the troopers they were.

But there were things that weren’t so cool that evening, too.

There were a lot of other locals lined up to play before The Man in Black. They started off with a yokel named (wait for it) Yodeling Slim Clark (A.K.A., “Maine’s Great Yodeler”). Three guesses as to what he mostly did. And there were other locals too. Hal Lone Pine. (Sure. Somehow I too tend to doubt that that was Hal’s actual last name.) Big Slim? What? Two Slims on the same card? Terri Lynn? Jeanne Ward? I didn’t know them, nor do I remember their performances at all. It was getting to be a long night.

It was Yodeling Slim Clark who led off after The Mallett Brothers. And in between the numbers, some emcee from somewhere out of sight down on that stage babbled on at us from time to time like some carnival barker: “Hey folks. It won’t be long now for the main event!” Or “You just wait! Johnny’s champin’ on the bit to get on out here on stage with his Ring of Fire!” But George Jones was up and the audience went wild. I didn’t know who the hell he was at the time, but it was easy to gather from all the roars and the applause that he was of The Grand Ol’ Oprey Big Time. As was June Carter. I’d never heard of her either.

They night was growing long, everybody waiting and longing for The Man in Black. And then something ominous happened. “You know what, Ladies and Gentlemen? We’ve had lots of requests to hear old Yodeling Slim Clark one more time! Come on out, Slim!” And you could feel it rippling through the audience. What? Yodeling Slim, again? Why?! Good Lord, wasn’t once enough?! And then, “Don’t you worry, folks! Johnny’s here! And he’s gettin’ ready to come out here in just a few, and give you the show of a life time! He’s here!

I immediately looked around at the fans seated around me, who were also immediately looking around at all the fans seated around them. Puzzled frowns all around! I heard a whisper behind me that took the whisper right out of my mouth. “Damn! I don’t think Johnny’s HERE!” And suddenly that was the writing on the wall. For all of us. There was a bad taste in everyone’s mouth. The emcee didn’t say he wasn’t here, but something about the way he insisted that he was here knocked the wind right out of your sails, I can tell you that. And then… damned if we weren’t listening to old Yodeling Slim all over again. Talk about adding insult to injury…

And guess what. Johnny really wasn’t there!

According to Neil, later on, the people responsible for the show were going nuts backstage. Pulling their hair out! Where the hell was he!? Nobody knew!

They’d been stalling for too long, which helps to explain the long night. I mean, can you imagine the bedlam there would be with everybody angry as hell… and demanding their money back?! After stringing us along seemigly forever, and then torturing us with Yodeling Slim a second time.

A coupla days later, Neil described Johnny’s actual arrival this way: All of a sudden a backstage double door was kicked open, letting the wind and rain gust in. And there he was! In a long, black coat, possibly a rain coat, and a cigarette poking out of the corner of his mouth. Behind him stood the band with their guitar cases and amps. Dripping wet, he stepped inside and flicked his cigarette butt across the floor! And Neil? He chased that butt down and scooped it up! And yes. He had himself a genuine, bona-fide Johnny Cash souvenir!

I know that he kept this memento for a long time in his billfold because he showed it to me. More than once.

However, once when I related this story to some people over at David’s home a few years ago, Neil pooh-poohed my account by saying, “I think you’re using quite a bit of poetic license there, Tommy,” to which David spoke up in my defense, “The hell he is.

(Sorry, Neil)

Anyway, it turned out that Johnny and his good ol’ boys in the band were quite inebriated. That much was obvious by the way we watched Johnny swagger up to June Carter out there on the stage, toss his guitar over his back to hang off his shoulder by the guitar strap, grab June around the waist, tip her over a few degrees below the horizontal, and plant the longest kiss I’d ever seen planted on anybody’s lips. And the crowd erupted with whistles and catcalls! I was shocked!

I didn’t know it then because I knew nothing about June and very little about Johnny except his wonderful music, but both of them were married. And not to each other.

But not for long, after that.

A few days after the concert, word got around that Johnny and the band had demolished a couple of motel rooms where they’d spent their night. Probably in a drunken blackout. I don’t know.

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But what I do know is… hell, that was one unforgettable date! Very heady stuff. Especially for a couple of small-town, never-been-anywheres like Phyllis and I. But as far as I was concerned, I’d totally done it. Because after a date like that, what girl was ever gonna drop me? I drove her home thinking, Oh yeah, chick’s gonna stick with me. (OK, I admit it. Actually I was thinking that with a big ‘I hope‘ tacked on.) But it was pretty good plus yardage for me.

I mean, hey, I was in with the Mallet Brothers, right? So, like, from her point of view, maybe anything was possible. Maybe I really would end up taking her to see Elvis next, for all she knew. Or… Ricky Nelson. Or…

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But you know what blows my mind? That none of this might have (wouldn’t have), happened had it not been for one musical instrument that my Aunt Elva had purchased for my mom, Violet Lyford back in the early 1940’s.

Because in 1963, it just so happens that one antique guitar was shown to two young boys, along with a tiny bit of brainless instruction about how to play four simple guitar chords. And a duo who called themselves The Mallett Brothers hit the stage shortly after.

Later the youngest one, David, went off to college with his guitar, and over time blossomed into this amazing national and international singer-songwriter who to this day has seventeen albums to his credit. And today, two of his sons are setting the world, or at least America for now, on fire as The Mallett Brothers 2.0.

You want some irony though? Some twenty-five years later, after the original Mallett Brothers began, I’m still fooling around with those same stinkin’ four chords. Yeah. How do you like them apples?

But whatta say… LET’S HEAR IT FOR MA’S GUITAR…!!!

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