No One's Laughing

No One’s Laughing

By Jerry Hall

Copyright © 2016 by Jerry Hall

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

First Printing: 2016

ISBN 9781521713655

Published by J.W. Hall

halltulsa@aol.com

Table of Contents

Chapter 1 – Stage Mothers (Monsters)

Chapter 2 – The Theater Experience

Chapter 3 –License to Smoke

Chapter 4 – Calling India

Chapter 5 – Thank You for Calling

Chapter 6 – Nothing a Man Can’t Handle

Chapter 7 – Trailer Trash

Chapter 8 – My True Love’s Baggage

Chapter 9 – Alcoholic’s A Donut

Chapter 10 – Put a Hole in My Face

Chapter 11 – Healthy People

Chapter 12 – Understanding Cows

Chapter 13 – The Attitude

Chapter 14 – That Happy Place

Chapter 15 – Other Things That Irritate Me

Chapter 16 – The Collapse of Civilization

Chapter 17 – Lay Me Down

Chapter 18 – Honesty Isn’t Always Easy

Chapter 19 – What Makes Me Laugh?

Chapter 20 – Reflection

Chapter 1 – Stage Mothers (Monsters)

A friend once asked me, Why did you want to become a comedian? My response was, Because you are always saying I’m funny and I should do standup. His response was, I was just fucking with you, bro…you’re not funny at all. Which makes me ask myself, Why did I want to become a comedian?

When I was growing up, my dad worked in an old movie theater. When the theater was in its heyday, they used to have live performances there with the dressing rooms under the stage and a cockpit and such. I began exploring the theater between the countless movies I had seen and was amazed at the props and sets that were still behind the curtain.

I became enthralled with the theater and decided at that young age that I wanted to become an actor. During one showing of Cleopatra, I made my way up on the stage and kissed the screen. I was aiming for Elizabeth Taylor’s lips, but my lips grazed her left tit instead. The theater guests cheered me on and I knew I would one day win an Oscar.

After that charming screen test, I rushed home and wrote a letter to Walt Disney Productions. I told them that I wanted to be in one of their movies. I knew I needed to submit a resume but at the age of ten I didn’t know what a resume was, so I sent them a list of all the Disney movies I had seen. They were not impressed. They sent me a reply that basically said, Get some experience and then give us a call, in the meantime, go fuck yourself.

Later that year, my mother read in the newspaper that the local cable company was holding their yearly talent contest, and as she was attempting to be a good stage mother, she signed me up for it. She decided that I would do a comedy sketch and even told me what the sketch would be about. She also told me I would win the contest and informed me that if I didn’t, I would be a disappointment to the family and she would never speak to me again.

On the day of the contest, my mother made every effort to avoid being late getting to the cable company. She accelerated the orange Ford Pinto down Main St; running red lights, running stop signs, and running over curbs. When we arrived, the parking lot was packed, and there were no spaces left, except for a couple of spaces for parallel parking. My mother didn’t believe in parallel parking; she said it was President Nixon’s way of controlling us. She borrowed a space at the Dairy Queen across the street and scurried to get me out of the car.

I could tell she was excited for me as she yelled, Hurry your ass up…we’re late. She grabbed me by the hand and pulled me across the street…yelling at me the whole way; Why in the hell did you wear those cowboy boots…this isn’t a fucking rodeo. I hope you brushed your teeth. What happened to your hair…I combed it before we left the house, now it looks like shit. I hope you remember your goddamn monologue.

Once we got inside, my mother’s abrupt attitude changed. She walked up to the receptionist and started her introduction. Hello, I am June Bellamy…my husband works at the theater and we’re here to enter the talent competition. The receptionist looked at her and said, Are you entering the competition, Mrs. Bellamy? My mother replied, No, just my son, Jay. He does comedy and he is absolutely brilliant, unless of course he gets nervous and then he gets diarrhea and he’s in the bathroom for hours. Would you like to hear some of his monologue? No, the receptionist replied, we can wait on that." I don’t know what it is about my mother, but she always feels inclined to mention that I shit myself when I get nervous, that and the fact that I am too incompetent to wipe my own ass afterwards. I can understand her frustration; I’m sure laundering my underwear was not an easy task for her. However, sometimes I shit my pants just to piss her off.

Little did we know that we were an hour early arriving at the cable company and the mad as hell driving was not even necessary. My mother was given a form to fill out and what would have been an easy task created more problems for her. My mother glared at the receptionist and asked Excuse me, but what is all of this? Why do you need my child’s personal information for a frigging talent contest? The receptionist was getting quite annoyed at my mother. I could tell this because she was looking at my mother with a smile that said, Go away, bitch. It is the same smile that most people have when they deal with my mother. The receptionist replied, What information could we possibly need from a minor? Let me see…his name…so we can tell everyone he won, his address…so we can send him his prize money…the release form, so we can show his cute little face on television… I appreciated the cute comment however sarcastic it may have been. My mother then informed the receptionist that if they were going to film her that she would need to borrow the Ladies restroom to freshen her makeup.

Pretty soon, parents began arriving with their children, and the studio began filling up. During that time, my mother had me practice my monologue seven times…until I became sick of saying it. It was without a doubt the longest hour of my life. The competition began on time, and after watching several children perform…it was now my turn on the stage.

The bright lights, the cameras, and the audience made me extremely nervous, and I felt the urge to throw up…I probably would have, but my urge to pee was even stronger. The room was silent, the cameras were taping, and everyone’s attention was on me. I kept telling myself, I can do this…remember the monologue…it’s not that hard, it’s about the vacation at grandma and grandpa’s last summer…you remember the monologue…don’t you, asshole? Come on, you can do this.

I worked up the courage to speak and the only thing that came out of my mouth was Knock, knock. I don’t remember much of what happened, except my mother standing up and screaming, What the FUCK!

My hand was once again in my mother’s as she pulled me across the street to retrieve our car from the Dairy Queen. She was yelling at me the whole way. For the love of Christ! I cannot believe you embarrassed me like that. Knock, knock? What was that shit? Wait until I tell your dad…no one will ever go to his theater anymore. Get in the fucking car."

My mother was shaking so badly that she could barely get the key in the ignition. Once she started the car, she said something that would affect me the rest of my life. You know what you are? I started to say, A kid with dirty underwear? Instead I asked, What? That was a big mistake. You are a big disappointment, but you don’t care, do you? No, you don’t care. You want to do comedy…be on a stage…be famous, but you know what? It isn’t ever going to happen. You are worthless, and you will never amount to anything. And by the way, you look just like your daddy, you wobbly headed piece of shit.

I cried all the way home. I knew that crying wasn’t very manly, but I was eleven…I guess I had a permit to cry. No, I may not ever be famous, but I knew I would be on a stage someday…doing my comedy routines, and possibly making a living at it. I realized on that day that my life pretty much sucked ass. I also discovered that I had developed a strong disliking for stage mothers and the pressures they put on their children.

I was watching a television show one day about a little fat blonde girl whose primary purpose in life, was entering beauty pageants. It isn’t necessary that I mention the name of the show because…well, you know what little fat blonde girl I’m talking about. As I was watching the girl and her mother interact with each other, I felt sorry for the girl. I didn’t feel sorry that she had a stage mother, I felt sorry because that little girl was damn ugly, and her mother doesn’t tell her. Most little girls grow up with a dream of being an actress, singer, or a dancer, or even Miss America, and that is great. What you need to realize, is that when a child looks like an anus, you are obligated to tell them it’s never going to happen.

Even at a young age, no matter how many aspirations a young girl has, I’m sure that she can look in the mirror and see beyond the Little Mermaid outfit and realize that she looks like lobster shit. The mirror always speaks the truth, and it hurts sometimes. Hey Ariel. The mirror says, Don’t go where the people go…they don’t want to see your ugly fish ass anymore. It is then that she realizes she will never be a singer or Miss America, because the fact is, she makes people want to throw up when they look at her.

As these little girls grow older, they realize that their beauty pageant days are numbered. They are no longer four or five-year-old girls who look so precious and adorable prancing around in their little tap shoes; they are now six and seven-year-old girls, losing their baby teeth and having to wear one-inch thick glasses. Nobody wants to see a six or seven-year-old twirling around in a tutu when she looks like Fiona from Shrek. Eventually, the little girls accept it…their aspirations diminish…and they will now aspire to be a teacher or a meter reader.

These little girls shattered dreams are not only caused by their failure to live up to cuteness, it is the fact that their mother led them to believe they were beautiful and talented, when they knew for a fact they were not. These monsters, otherwise known as Stage Mothers, have given these little girls a false hope, leading them to believe they would someday wear a princess crown