The tasteless story produced mixed results. I was a guest of the Rigby Lion’s Club, which was sponsoring me to go to the 1965 Idaho Boy’s State. It was at this event that I first heard a dirty joke told out loud at a public meeting. I had heard dirty jokes before, just not at a meeting with adults present. Of the three doctors in Rigby, the one telling the story was the least likely to be in church on Sunday mornings. Otherwise a fine physician, he was one of those men who chose to make people uncomfortable with his jokes. A few of the Lions roared with laughter. The rest chuckled politely or just smiled. My father was deadpan silent. I wondered why.
As an impetuous teenager, I just figured that my father was too busy or distracted to joke around. I also knew that he would not want to disappoint my angel mother. My general assumption was that he probably just didn’t understand jokes or the material. Not so. Here was a man who came from a small farming community, spent four years as a battlefield surgeon in north Africa and Italy during WWII, delivered over 5000 babies, and went to Lion’s Club and VFW meetings every month for nearly 50 years. If anyone understood the background material most dirty jokes are made of, it should have been him. He just did not respond. His deadpan face did not reflect shock, amusement, or disgust. He chose to behave like a cast-iron skillet.
When I saw the professor leaving, I held my breath, hoping he would choose another aisle --one where he would be less likely to notice us. However, he stayed on the course that passed right by our table. When he recognized me, he stopped. Oh, good grief! He could have just walked by while nodding politely, but that was not in his nature.
On this particular occasion, MK and I were at Marie Callender’s, sitting at a large table with three other couples. All of us knew the professor by name and were acquainted in varying degrees with his many notable accomplishments. My association was a little more intimate — he was one of my patients and I had seen him recently. I was not at all surprised when he announced in his big voice that he had heard a little story and thought of me. Turning his head to one side and holding onto the frame of his glasses, he switched out of his conversational voice into his professorial voice. In a higher octave and a slower cadence, he proceeded without an invitation to tell his joke. I had heard the story before and the moment he started, I knew it was tasteless at many levels. It was a surprise that a man of his stature would even share this in public, let alone in polite, mixed company. As it unfolded, it was like watching a train wreck in slow motion -- wanting to stop it, but unable to do so. With the punchline, some of our friends laughed so as not to offend the offender, others did not seem to understand nuances of the story and laughed politely, others groaned with expressed surprise. Back in his normal voice, he bid us adieu and departed with his embarrassed, new wife who was shaking her head in disbelief. The moment he was out of earshot, MK asked why he had thought of "ME" when he heard that awful story. I explained that I was his urologist and that he was one of those fellows who felt an obligation to tell me a urology joke whenever we met — somehow thinking that I enjoy this stuff. Four years ago, I went to my final medical meeting, held at the Kapalua Ritz-Carlton — a slice of Hawaiian heaven hosted by the Mayo Clinic. We were tutored by world-class doctors. The format required each speaker to start off with a joke. Let’s see, clinical professors telling old urology jokes, by assignment — what could go wrong? Most of the stories were the same urology jokes I had heard in St. Louis 40 years earlier. Later, the organizers apologized for the joke format. This was astounding. Academics are not known to openly reveal their faults, let alone apologize in public. What has this world come to? Recently I ran into a local tennis coach at my granddaughter's early morning tennis match. He had coached MK and our daughters off and on over the past four decades. I am sure that he could have helped me, but at the time I was uncoachable and had no time for Teutonic tennis marching orders. Nonetheless, I appreciate what he has done for my family and we have remained acquaintances at a distance with many friends in common. After saying hello, he asked me if I had any jokes, explaining that he recalled that I always had a good story. I told him that I hadn't heard a new urology joke for quite a while. As I thought about it, I could not recall ever telling him a joke or talking with him about anything but tennis. Maybe it was traveling through a blizzard to watch four girls play tennis that put me out of sorts, but I became annoyed and soon realized that I really did not want the legacy of being the guy who ran around telling tired, old urology jokes to everyone. Not wanting to endure hearing old urology stories over again, I have learned to use my father's deadpan joke-face. Tell jokes to a cast-iron skillet long enough and they stop being funny, and the jokesters take their stories elsewhere -- until one of them spots you sitting with a group of friends in public, somehow thinking you enjoy this stuff. Ever vigilant, RT
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