Hoop Dreams

It appears as though my career as a bad amateur basketball player is all but over.

There was no farewell tour. No season-ending tournament game in front of thousands of cheering fans. My moment of glory didn’t make the highlight reel on ESPN’s Sports Center. Hell, it wasn’t even captured on home video, which is too bad because American TV audiences evidently find video clips of people getting hurt to be endlessly amusing.

My hoop dreams ended in a high school gymnasium on a Sunday afternoon 15 minutes into the first game. The only witnesses were the other 9 players and 2 guys waiting for the next game. I got the ball in the paint, went hard to my right to go around the defender, pushed off my right foot towards the hole and… down I went.

I tore the medial meniscus in my right knee so badly that it had flipped over and lodged between the knee joint, preventing me from straightening my leg.

That night, I maneuvered myself around the house by resting the foot of my bent leg on a chair. I’d take a step with my good leg, stop, move the chair and my right leg at the same time, and repeat.

At the Sports Clinic the next day, the surgeon told me he’d have to manually straighten my leg before they could do anything. It turns out I’m not nearly as tough in reality as I am in my imagination.

As the doctor sloooooowly pushed down on my knee, tears streamed from both eyes, and I made noises that would’ve no doubt frightened away lions or possibly even crack-addict burglars with handguns.

My doctor (who I’m guessing skipped his med-school sessions on bedside manners) apparently felt as though I was overreacting because at one point he said, “Come on, now. This is getting ridiculous.”

When I said, “So are your fees,” I’m pretty sure he pushed harder.

The next day, he removed 75% of the meniscus. At the follow up a week later, he strongly recommended that I stop playing hoops unless the prospect of knee-replacement surgery in 10-15 years was appealing to me.

“Plus,” he added, “I’ve seen you play.”

“Very funny, doc” I said. “At least you didn’t suggest I work this into my act.”

Premises are easy. Punch lines are hard.

People are so nice. Always trying to help out with ideas for my stand-up.

After a show in December of 1989, a guy recommended I do a bit about how people love to shake hands.

“Yes, I should,” I agreed, as the man pumped my hand vigorously.

Last week my mother told me that my dad unwrapped a frozen pizza, inadvertently left it on the cardboard tray and stuck the whole thing in the oven. She laughed almost uncontrollably when she got to the part about the fire.

When she recovered long enough to breathe, she said “You should use that in your comedy routine.” Then she started laughing again, as if to convince me of the comedy value inherent to her story.

Over the last 18 years, hundreds of well-meaning people have volunteered their premises to me, and urged me to turn them into comedy gold.

It finally occurred to me that I should turn the whole topic into a comedy bit. All I need is a killer punch line.

Milk Prices

I went to the grocery store today. A gallon of milk was $3.45.

Which means I have a family with an almost $30-a-week milk addiction.

I'm going to have to start start selling drugs just to support our milk habit.

If prices keep going up, we might all have to go to milk rehab...

Levitra commercial

"When I first learned that my high blood pressure was causing my erectile dysfunction, I was surprised. So my doctor described Levitra."

Geez, maybe your doctor should have prescribed some high blood pressure medication. Your veins are so constricted that your blood pressure is high enough to ram a golf ball though a garden hose but you're worried about getting a woody?
Unless your idea of stiff includes rigor mortis, you might want to get a second opinion.