Secret Agent Junior High: Agent 99 (short story 12)

Over a year ago, as an exercise, I started writing one short story a week. This was something Harlan Ellison (I think) suggested to one of his fans, his reasoning being "You can't write 52 bad short stories in a row." I'm not sure about that, but here's one of those stories.

*

It's the first day of school at SAJH. Secret Agent Junior High is just like a normal junior high, except that it's in a top secret facility. Windows look onto an equally secure interior courtyard. Another thing, the subjects taught are slightly different - dodgeball is replaced by hand-to-hand combat, introduction to computers is replaced by advanced computer hacking, and so on. They also teach small arms weaponry, cryptography, the history of bio-weapons, and you get the picture.

The classroom has windows on one side facing an interior courtyard, desks in the middle, tables in back, and a blackboard and teacher's desk in front. There are displays around the room -- different types of knives, swords, handguns, rifles, and so on. There are also spy-craft displays -- a codebook, miniature cameras, cell phones, telescopes, and so on.

The middle-aged teacher, Mr Myers, wearing a chalk-stained elbow-padded corduroy sports jacket, is in front writing lessons on the black board. The young teaching assistant, Ms Evans, wearing a sweater and slacks, is handing out materials and taking roll.

"Seats everyone! Please don't touch that!" Mr Myers yells.

Although only 14 years old, Ivy is strong for her age, having two black belts in martial arts. While she doesn't look it, she's the state 16 and under girls weight-lifting champion. She approaches the table in the back of the room and picks up a Spanish Ameli, a machine gun on display. "What's this?" Ivy asks.

"Down! Everyone down!" Ms Evans shouts.

Everyone drops to the floor. BLAM-BLAM-BLAM-BLAM-BLAM-BLAM-BLAM-BLAM-BLAM-BLAM-BLAM-BLAM! Glass flies from the windows, books blast apart, AAAAYYYYEEEEIIII!!, everyone, including Ivy, is screaming. Finally, Ivy drops it with a loud clatter and a thud.

Max, a 14 year old boy looks up from his crouched position and asks, "What happened?" He's got short neatly combed black hair and is the only student wearing a suit and tie.

"That was Ivy touching a hair trigger," Mr Myers says calmly.

The crisp morning air through the now glassless windows ruffles papers in an otherwise silent room. "Nice breeze," Ms Evans says, her hair blowing in the cool wind coming in through the window.

"Nice breeze," Ms Evans says, her hair blowing in the cool wind coming in through the window.

"Anyone hurt?" Mr Myers asks.

Ms Evans wanders around the room, checking on the kids. "Everyone's okay," she says calmly.

"Good. No harm, no foul. Who forgot to put the safety on?" Mr Myers asks.

"What is a safety?" Max asks. Ms Evans tsk-tsks at Max while she gets a broom and sweeps up broken glass and stacks bullet-ridden books in a pile. Max, whistles innocently. "I think I'll go quietly stand in the corner," he says.

"Everyone, welcome to your first day of Secret Agent Junior High School," Mr Myers says brightly. "Take your seat."

In a moments, except for Max in the corner, all students are seated at their desks. In front, Ms Evans hands Mr Myers the attendance sheet. "Thank you Ms Evans. No gold star for you Max, but you can be seated now."

Max sheepishly winds his way through the desks to his seat. Class bully Martin thwacks him on the head as his passes, messing up he hair. "Ouch!" Max says.

"Martin, would you --" Ms Evans warns. Martin interrupts with a fake apology. "Sorry, it was an accident."

Mr Myers points to the student in front to his left, Trixie. "Starting with you, let's all say our names and our specialty. Trixie, you begin."

"Call me Q. I specialize in disguised devices," Trixie says.

"Thank you, Q. Moving on, Felix, tell us, what's your specialty?" Mr Myers asks.

"Drugs."

"Drugs that help wounded agents? Or mind-altering drugs to confuse the enemy? Can you be more specific?" asks Mr Myers.

Achooo! "Allergy drugs. I'm allergic to everything, and I forgot my pills this morning. But I'd like to try those mind-altering drugs, if you have any," Felix says with a sniff.

Mr Myers hands Felix a kleenex. "You're excused to see the nurse." Nicole sits behind Felix, who leaves the classroom sneezing. He points to her and says, "Moving on. Nicole, you're next - go ahead."

Most of the rest of the class does their introductions, as a crisp morning breeze blows through the room.

"Last but not least, we have Lydia and Max. Which of you wants to go first?" Mr Myers asks.

Blond-haired 14 year old Lydia sits behind Max in the last row, back corner. She's watching a video with the volume off on her cell-phone beneath her desk, so no one can see what she's doing. It's a selection of physical comedy by Maxwell Smart on youtube.

"Some days it seems I can't do anything right. I don't know what I can specialize in," Max says. He's a bit down. He almost got everyone killed, so that's to be expected.

"Any special skills?" Ms Evans asks in a kind voice.

Max shakes his head, "No."

"Dude, go for small weapons expert, I'll teach you everything I know!: says Mark, seated in the middle of the room. Max shakes his head again.

John, seated in front in Max's row, turns around. "Be a hacker! I'll show you all my mad skills," John offers. Max shakes his head again.

Debbie, in the middle of the class next to Mark, turns around. "I can teach you karate. I'm a 2nd degree black belt. I run every morning at 5am. Start tomorrow?" Debbie asks. Max shakes his head again.

Sutinder, next to John the front row, looks up at Mr Myers. "I can teach Max crypto, Mr Myers," Sutinder offers.

Max says, "I got an F in my last math class." Sutinder grimices and shakes his head.

"Thank you all for your generous offers of help. Max, I have to ask, why did you join Secret Agent High School in the first place?" Mr Myers asks.

"Yes, Max, think about your inner motivations. What are your inspirations? What drives you?" Ms Evans asks.

"Well ... I ..." Max stammers. "Yes?" ask Mr Myers and Ms Evans simultaneously. "What I really w-want ..." Max stammers. "Yes?" the class says, hopefully. "I just wanted a date with 99," Max says.

"Did you say 99?" John asks.

"Secret agent 99," Max says. Several students sputter and laugh. "Agent 99 from Get Smart the old TV show?" Mr Myers asks. "Yes!" says Max enthusiastically.

All the students but Lydia roar with laughter. Ms Evans puts her hands over her face.

"Moving along, right Mr Myers?" Felix asks laughing.

Max, embarrassed, puts his head down on the desk.

"Forget the karate lessons," says Debbie.

"Lydia? Last but not least, please introduce yourself," says Ms Evans.

Lydia closes her cell-phone. Max sniffs. "I'm Agent 99," Lydia says. All the students turn to look at Lydia, in a perfect imitation of Barbara Feldon/Agent 99, with 1970s clothes and wig. Stunned silence.

"Very impressive, Lydia. Your specialty?" Mr Myers asks.

"Disguises. This one's my favorite," Lydia answers.

Max turns around to look at Lydia/99, who smiles back. He wipes a tear from his eye and beams a big smile.

trailer for Russell's Paradox

I made a short "Russell's Paradox" with some friends based on a script I wrote. It was a lot of fun.

Description/Logline: Russell, a contractor, and his wife Bertie, a mathematician, are enjoying a quiet night at home when Russell gets a call from his boss giving him a new job description. Bertie points out a problem with that paradox that Russell didn't predict.

Here's a trailer:




Cast:

Russell - Nick Beschen
Bertie - Alicia Sweeney
Tamika - Carolyn Chun
Director/Editor/Lights - James Angiola
Writer/Editor/Camera - David Joyner
Script supervisor - Susan Snyder
Producer - Annapolis Filmmaking Group

It's been selected as a finalist in the Raw Science Film Festival! Here's a poster, created by James Angiola:

A trick in the basement (short story 11)

Over a year ago, as an exercise, I started writing one short story a week. This was something Harlan Ellison (I think) suggested to one of his fans, his reasoning being "You can't write 52 bad short stories in a row." I'm not sure about that, but here's one of those stories.

*

The room looks like an unfinished basement. Concrete below, floor joists and wiring above, walls of concrete and wood. No windows, but there’s a metal door about 12 feet off the ground at the top of what should be stairs. The door has no visible door knob. A bare bulb hangs from a cord from a floor joist, with a string dangling down from it. It swings, casting eerie shadows. In the corner there is a framed bathroom, with toilet, faucet and sink, and a clock saying 12 o’clock, but drywall hasn’t been tacked up, so you can see into it.

A woman is asleep on the floor - Zoe, in green nurse’s scrubs. White, in her 20s, with manicured nails. A thin 20-something black woman, Alice, in t-shirt and jeans, groans, turns over, opens her eyes and looks around. She sits up sees the toilet in the corner. Then she notices Zoe. Alice groans again as she checks on Zoe, then stumbles over to the toilet and vomits. She washes out her mouth, sits on the toilet and checks her cellphone. No reception. She pockets her cellphone.

Tacked to the wooden frame of the bathroom, Alice sees several typewritten pages of what looks like randomly typed letters. She brings it underneath the lightbulb.

Solve it. You have 24 hours. Or you too will die.
“Hello?” Alice yells at the door. “Help! Is anyone up there?” Nothing.

Zoe starts to stir. She turns over, opens her eyes and looks around. “What’s going on? Who are you?”

“I’m Alice. I just woke up a few minutes ago. I thought you were dead.”

Zoe rubs her forehead. “I’m Zoe. I feel sick.” Zoe gets up, checks her cellphone, and looks around. “I don’t have any reception, do you?”

Alice shakes her head.

“I vomited as soon as I woke up. I think I was drugged. ”

“Yeah. Do you recognize this place? Are we in someone’s house?” Alice asks.

“I don't know. Check this out” Alice hands Zoe the pages.

“Solve it? What does that mean?” Zoe asks.

“I assume it means to figure out what the coded message says.” Alice shows Zoe the pages and pages of typed ciphertext.

“Looks like gibberish. We’re going to die, aren’t we? ... Help!” Zoe yells.

“I already tried yelling. The only way out seems to be that door. Whoever’s up there isn’t responding.”

“Even if you solved the code then how would they know?”

“Maybe they’re watching us?” Alice asks.

They both look carefully at the walls and ceiling. “I don’t see a camera,” says Zoe.

“They can be disguised to look like anything. I can’t solve this without pencil and lots of paper.”




Mark, a young overweight sips a drink out of an oversized plastic cup with a straw. He sits in a comfortable chair in front of a table wearing an oversized football jersey, shorts, and socks on his feet. A partially eaten hamburger sits to the side. He’s looking at a video on a laptop. It’s showing a live feed from the basement.

The video shows Alice saying “Maybe they’re watching us?” then she starts looking at the ceiling.

Mark turns down the volume on the laptop and then rotates it so he can see it as he walks over to the basement door. There’s a cardboard box by the door. When he sees Alice is facing away from the door, in one fluid motion, he grabs the box, switches off the lights, opens the door, tosses the box into the basement, shuts and locks the door, then flips the lights back on.

He takes a deep breath and goes back to sit next to the laptop.



The lightbulb goes out. It’s pitch dark. There’s a soft creak of a door opening and a BOOM as a package hits the floor. The door clicks shut and the lights come back on.

There’s a cardboard box on the floor near the door. Alice and Zoe rush over to it. They find paper, pencils, plastic cups, a bottle of caffeine pills, and some protein bars.

"Hey! Let us out!" Zoe yells.

"Let us out! What do you want?" Alice yells at the door.

"Asshole!" Zoe yells at the door.

“I’m not sure if there’s a camera but someone’s listening to us,” Alice whispers to Zoe.




Mark turns up the volume on the laptop so he can hear the last half of Alice’s statement “I’m not sure if there’s a camera but someone’s listening to us.”

He snickers. “She’s the bright one? Oh, gawd.”




Alice takes a plastic cup, goes into the bathroom and fills it with water from the faucet and drinks. She pulls her pants down and sits on the toilet. Alice pulls out her cellphone and opens her connection settings.

The clock says 1 o’clock.

Zoe faces away from Alice to give her some privacy, goes over to the box and starts eating a protein bar. Alice picks up the laptop in her list of available connections. She connects and then opens up a remote webcam app. She sees Mark, takes a screenshot as he, obliviously eats his burger and wipes his fingers on his t-shirt. Alice finishes up, flushes, washes her hands and joins Zoe.

“Good protein bars,” Zoe says, offering Alice one.

“No thanks. Here’s the guy upstairs,” and Alice shows Zoe his picture. “I hacked his webcam.”

“That’s him?”

“Doesn’t look like much. I don’t want to keep the connection open too long, he might spot it.”

“Don’t want to piss him off. He looks like he could kill someone.”

“I’m going to take a look at this cipher,” Alice says, taking the pages and her cup of water over near the lightbulb. Alice gets out paper, pencil, and starts making notes.

“Let me know if I can help. Do you want a protein bar?”

“Can you toss the bottle of caffeine pills?”

Zoe tosses them to Alice, who catches them, takes a few and swallows with a gulp of her water,

Zoe takes a naps while Alice writes.

The clock says 2 o'clock.

She writes more. Zoe flips over and goes back to sleep.

The clock says 3 o'clock. Zoe yawns and goes back to sleep.

She writes more.

The clock says 4 o'clock. Zoe peeks at Alice out of a corner of one eye, sighs, and goes back to sleep.





Mark watches Alice write pages and pages and pages of notes and computations. He, like Zoe, dozes off.






The clock says 8 o’clock.

“I’m done,” Alice says.

Zoe stretches and walks over. “Can I see?”

Alice hands her the pile of notes and computations. “Can you read my handwriting?”

“I guess so. Where’s the message?” Zoe asks.

“The last 5 pages.”

Zoe flips to the end of the stack of pages and reads.

“Do you still think we’re going to die?” Alice asks.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, Zoe stabs Alice with a needle and plunges it into her. “I’m not. You’re another story.”

Alice collapses, unconscious. Zoe takes Alice’s cellphone and pockets it. Zoe goes over to the bathroom, opens the toilet cover, pulls out what
looks like a TV remove control, points it at the door and presses it several times.
The door opens.

“What?” Mark yells down.

“She did it,” Zoe says.

“Really? Let me see.”

“Lower the ladder, dammit. I’ll show you then.”

Mark disappears, comes back with a 6 foot ladder which he lowers down to Zoe. She climbs up with the stack of Alice’s pages to the top step and Mark helps her up the rest of the way. They take a last look at Alice, looking dead to the world. Mark turns off the lights, pulls up the ladder, and shut the door.





Zoe hands Mark the pages. He studies them at the kitchen table. “I don’t believe it. She did it. You did it Zoe, you’re brilliant.”

“I just planned a kidnapping. She's the brilliant one, or rather was,” Zoe says looking at the closed basement door.

“She decoded the Beale cipher. We’ll be rich. How much is the buried treasure worth?”

“Seventy million dollars in gold, according to today’s prices.”

“Thirty-five million each. I don't believe it. How did you know she could do it? Just because she works at NSA?” Mark asks.

“She also won the IMO in high school.”

“What’s that?” Mark asks, flipping through the ages of Alice’s calculations.

Zoe comes behind him and stabs him with a needle and plunges it into him. “Not important right now,” she says to him.

Mark collapses, unconscious. Zoe takes his car keys and Alices page’s and walks out.

Murder mystery as a logic puzzle (short story 10)

Over a year ago, as an exercise, I started writing one short story a week. This was something Harlan Ellison (I think) suggested to one of his fans, his reasoning being "You can't write 52 bad short stories in a row." I'm not sure about that, but here's one of those stories.

*

Police have cordoned off a portion of the sideway outside the Charles Street Theater. Emergency response vehicles with flashing lights crowd the street. Police and an EMT crew work on something unseen on the sidewalk. Brenda Bragg, a confident looking TV news reporter stands across the street from the Charles Street Theater. She’s in makeup, smiling at the camera, lit by two beauty dishes in a blue and white knit wardrobe.

"Just hours ago, Bob Blowhard, a Baltimore city bassoon player, was found brutally murdered early this morning, strangled with a violin bow. Called the Balding Bassonist by his fans, he performed frequently in local bars and bistros. The police are still gathering clues. More on this story at 11. This is Brenda Bragg, with KRAP News.”



A large TV mounted on the wall shows Brenda Bragg signing off. None of the patrons of the Yummy Yellow Tavern watch TV, except Yasmine, a waitress in a yellow top and shorts, who only pretends not to be watching.

A bumper sticker on an SUV parked on a street in Fells Point says “Honk if you like The Jumping Jazz Flash Quartet.” There are four decals: one of a guitar, one of a trumpet, one of a violin, and one of a flute. Two young attractive couples, Ryan and Mary, Fred and Wilma, walk away from the SUV towards the tavern.

Once inside, they are seated right away by the bored hostess, Zoe, dressed in a black dress. “Your server Yasmine will be right with you,” Zoe says, placing four menus on the table before she walks off.

Yasmine arrives at their table. “Welcome to the Yummy Yellow. Have you been here before?”

“No, we need time to look at the menu,” Mary says.

“No problem. Can I get you folks something to drink to start out?” Yasmine asks.

Mary starts out. “Hi. Just get us one beer, one code, one milk, and a bottle of Perrier.”

“Be right back with those,” Yasmine says and heads off to the kitchen.

“Wilma, how’s grading those exams going?” Ryan asks.

“I have a few stacks to go. I’ll grade them after practice. Are you offering to help grade?” she says. Ryan laughs.

“I’d rather teach than be a doctor,” Fred says. "Aren't you afraid one of them will make you sick?"

“That’s why I drink beer,” Ryan says. “To help be forget the stethoscopes.” Everyone laughs.

“I don’t like beer,” Wilma says.

“Do you want me to teach you the trumpet?” Mary asks.

"Live on the wild side," Wilma teases in a sing-song voice.

“No, thank you,” says Fred.

“Wilma, how about you?” Mary asks.

“No, I’m good,” Wilma says.

Yasmine brings the drinks. “Thank you,” Fred says. Yasmine leaves, but stays within earshot.

“You can't drink milk can you Mary?” Wilma asks.

“No, allergies. Neither can our violinist” Mary says, looking at someone in particular. Looking at someone else, she adds, “Our photographer loves milk though.” That elicits a few chuckles in the group.

“Sherlock Holmes couldn’t have said it better,” Ryan says.

“Tell me Sherlock, why is it that every trumpet player I know likes coke best?” Wilma asks.

“Must be a weird coincidence. For example, why is it that every guitarist I know sticks to water? Just another strange statistic,” says Fred.

“Why is it that every zoologist I know doesn’t drink beer, can’t play the flute or play the guitar?” Ryan asks.

“You must not know many zoologists,” Wilma says.

“You better not,” Mary teases. Mary look around. Yasmine is wiping down a nearby table, pretending to ignore them. “Tell me Watson, why is it that every violinist I know sticks to beer, morning, noon, and night?” Mary jokes. Ryan laughs.



The large TV mounted on the wall shows Brenda Brag interrupting a local program. Zoe, still bored, and Yasmine watch.

“This is Brenda Brag, KRAP News, with an emergency update. Police now say that Bob Blowhard, the balding bassonist, was murdered by a member of the Jumping Jazz Flash Quartet. There is now a five thousand dollar award for information leading to the killer.”

Yasmine elbows Zoe awake. “Cha-ching,” Yasmine says. “Tell them to pay up.”

Zoe doesn’t believe her. “What?”

Yasmine says “The police will be here soon. Do it.”

“We’re a team. I’ll trust you on this.”

Zoe and Yasmine go over to the table of four.

“We were watching Brenda Brag. I'm going to have to insist you pay your bill now,” Zoe says.

“You don’t believe KRAP News do you?” Wilma asks, laughing at Zoe.

Yasmine says, “I do, and I know which of you killed the balding bassonist.”



A police car, lights flashing, is parked outside the Yummy Yellow on the curb.

Inside, Officer Octavia, wearing a Baltimore police uniform, talks to Yasmine. “You think you know who killed the bassoonist?” asks Officer Octavia. “Prove it.”

“One, the killer is a player in the Jumping Jazz Flash Quintet, and they are all seated at this table,” Yasmine says.

Officer Octavia looks at Frank, Mary, Fred, and Wilma. “Check.”

“Two, the killer plays the violin,” Yasmine says.

“Check.” Officer Octavia faces the table of musicians. “Which of you plays the violin?”

“I do,” they all say simultaneously.

“Not helpful,” says Zoe.

“Thank you, Zoe. Three, she,” Yasmine points to Mary, “asked ‘why is it that every violinist I know sticks to beer, morning, noon, and night?’ She thought I couldn't overhear her.”

“The violinist drinks beer. Who got the beer?” Officer Octavia asks.

“Good question. What I do know if that the beer drinker is a doctor, that the doctor is male, and that he,” Yasmine points to Fred, “said that he’s not a doctor.”

Officer Octavia points to Ryan. “That means you are under arrest.”

“You’re a female Sherlock Holmes,” Zoe says.

Yasmine smiles proudly. "Thanks,” Yasmine says.

“Will you split the award with me?” Zoe asks.

Yasmine nods, “Sure. We're a team, right?.”

Zoe smiles for the first time.

Linguistic theories of humor, 3

This series of (unfunny) blog posts will attempt to distill parts of certain articles (see part 1 and part 2) on "humor theory" into something interesting and intelligible to someone like me without a degree in English. No joke, it's harder than you might think to abstractly explain humor from the perspective of a linguist (which I'm definitely not). This part will discuss Victor Raskin's semantic script theory.

We use the references from part 1. Some, such as Krikmann [K06], regard Raskin's theory as a refinement of incongruity theory (discussed in part 2), while others regard it as a separate theory.

Agree or disagree, there is no question in my mind that the most interesting aspect of Raskin's theory is that he claims his theory can characterize what makes a joke funny.

“Ideally, a linguistic theory of humor should determine and formulate the necessary and sufficient linguistic conditions for the text to be funny” - V. Raskin

This is something lacking in the previously proposed theories. We'll try to delve into his theory in more detail below.

But first, who is this Victor Raskin? Is he a failed comedian who got a PhD and escaped into academia? I have no idea. According to wikipedia, Raskin was born in 1944 in the Russian town of Irbit, which lies about 1200 miles (2000 km) due east of Moscow. He got his Ph.D. in "Structural, Computational, and Mathematical Linguistics" from Moscow State University in 1970. About 3 years later he emigrated to Israel, and 10 years after that to the US. He is now a distinguished professor of linguistics at Purdue.

Raskin's theory, the first formal linguistic analysis of humor [R79], is nicely explained in Abdalian [A05] and Krikmann [K06].

Raskin believed that certain cognitive structures are stored in our mind along with some "common sense" associated words/phrases describing this structure. Roughly speaking, this is the context of a conversational topic. For example, if "marriage" is the cognitive structure we associate to it words such as "husband", "wife", "happy couple", "loving couple", "father", "mother", "home", and so on. If "plumber" is the cognitive structure we associate to it words/phrases such as "water leak", "broken toilet", "pipes", "plunger", "man in a workman's uniform", and so on. Raskin calls such a structure, along with their typical narratives, a script.

Following Krikmann [K06], we summarize Ranskin's theory as follows:

A text can be characterized as a joke if both of the following are satisfied:

• The text is compatible, fully or in part, with two different scripts.
  
• The two scripts with which the text is compatible are opposite in some sense.
  

The two scripts with which the text is compatible are said to overlap fully or in part on this text. To my understanding, this is a more precise and rigorous version of Incongruity Theory. This doesn't diminish Raskin's work, just places it in context.

Example 1: I don't know where I heard the following joke which mixes a doctor-patient script with a frog script.

A naked man with a frog on his head stands in an examination room in front of his doctor. The doctor gently touches the frog. It seems to be stuck where it is.
Doctor: What's the problem?
Frog: I need you to get this man off my butt.

Matt Nix -- On writing rules

(from Write What You Know: Matt Nix at TEDx)

I'm a big fan of writer Matt Nix and his TV series Burn Notice. Not all of these are verbatim comments. Some are those of Matt Nix, but some are my own loosely paraphrased version of remarks from his TEDx talk.

• Love your work unconditionally

• Learn to love your art, even if it doesn't love you back.

• Don't write what you know, write to express who you are.

• Figure out how much work you can reasonably do in a week. Double it. Double it again.

• The readers you fear are your creative partners. They are the stick. Share your work with people you fear.

• You don't choose your voice. Your creative voice is, like your speaking voice, one that can change between adolescence and adulthood. You have to work on it and develop it.

• Think of your creativity as an electronic box that simply says to you: shut up and feed me.

Very inspirational!

A trip to the zoo (short story 9)

Over a year ago, as an exercise, I started writing one short story a week. This was something Harlan Ellison (I think) suggested to one of his fans, his reasoning being "You can't write 52 bad short stories in a row." I'm not sure about that, but here's one of those stories. This particular one has several inspirations: (1) The 1915 story "Rule sixty-three" by P.G. Wodehouse (which, I'm guessing, was in turn inspired by Edgar Allan Poe's "The Businessman", written 1840-ish). (2) In addition, a version of it was workshopped (in a 2015 class taught by the outstanding playwright Randy Baker) as a play.
*
It’s a run-down, brick warehouse bordering Druid Hill Park, converted about 10 years ago into no-frills office spaces. Then, up a rickety old elevator that usually works, on the 3rd floor, is the office of Ruth and Joshua’s photography studio, Phinest Photography. The thirty-somethings usually they do weddings and student portraits but on slow days like today they do nothing.
Ruth crumples a wad of paper and throws it at Joshua, who’s snoring in the only comfortable chair they have. It misses and lands in a pile of wadded paper balls near the cheap old coffee pot with frayed wires.

“Josh, wake up. There’s time to sleep later,” Ruth says. Joshua continues to snore. Ruth crumples a larger wad and winds up. In slow motion, her wad of paper flies through the air, twirling and spinning in its arc towards Joshua’s head.

Joshua snorts and shakes the cobwebs out as the wad bounces off his head and lands nearby, revealing a small pile of paper balls on the floor. “What was that?” he says.

“You were snoring. I threw it to wake you up. You promised to take me to lunch in the park.”

“Is it lunchtime already?”

“Yes. Ready?”

“For food, I’m always ready.”

“I invited Ester to join us,” Ruth says.

“Cool.”

Ruth grabs a jacket. “Turn off the coffee pot.”

“Leave it, it’ll be fine,” Joshua says, opening the door for Ruth.

On a bench at the Zoo near the carousel, Ruth takes off her jacket. Coming from the open-air Cafe, Joshua walks over to her carrying a paper bag and a paper tray of drinks. He sets them down on the bench next to Ruth. “Where’s Ester?” he asks.

“This is where she’s supposed to meet us. She’s your daughter, call her and ask.”

Joshua hands Ruth an apple. He takes a large muffin.

“This is my lunch?” Ruth asks.

“It’s good for you.”

“And you get that?” Ruth asks, point to his muffin.

“This is for Ester.” Joshua takes a bite. “I’m just helping her with it.”

“You’re a glutton.”

“Stop whining. I’m taking you to lunch aren’t I?”

“Josh, do you happen to know of the South American frog, the Ameerega trivialus? It's not very popular with people, as it's extremely poisonous. However, I can honestly say that I infinitely prefer it to you at this point in time,” Ruth says, turning away.

“Well Ruth, do you know of the South American beetle, the Giganteus Titaneus? Its mandibles can slice human flesh. I can honestly say that I infinitely prefer it to you right now.” They eat in silence. Joshua scowls at a young man his age passing by. Joshua nudges Ruth. “Holy crap! Ruth, I recognize that guy. We served in the 207th. ”

“A friend?”

“No. He reported me. Who knew the Army could kick you out for excessive personal use of a Xerox machine? Then he ran away with my wife.”

“The snake pinched your partner over a pile of paper.” A young woman Ruth’s age strolls nearby, but sees Ruth and stops. Ruth nudges Joshua. "Oh, no," Ruth whispers.

“Ruth, is that you? Are you having health issues? You look so much older.”

“Thank you for your concern, Angelica,” Ruth says sarcastically. “Here to visit the skunks, are you?” Awkward fake smiles.

Angelica looks at her watch. “Oh, look at the time, I must be running. Toodles!” Angelica leaves.

“She is a skunk. We were neighbors years ago. Now she’s married to my ex-husband, the horny toad.”

“Ruth, I’m seeing another side of you today. And I like it.”

“Thank you,” Ruth says, snuggling up to Joshua.

“Love is for losers.”

“Nature’s way of tricking women into getting pregnant.” They smile together and sip their drink.

“It seems like I’m forgetting something. What’s today’s date?”

“It’s Valentine’s Day,” Ruth says.

Joshua is wide-eyed with surprise.

“Don’t tell me you forgot.”

“How can you say that?”

“You’re frikken unbelievable.”

“But Ruth, you just said – look, it’s Ester!”

Ester, a teenager, walks up to them and hugs them both. “I have bad news. I passed by your office on the way here. Fire-trucks
were all over. It’s burned to the ground.”

“Phinest Photography is gone? Ruth, that was our baby.”

"A firemen said it was caused by a coffee-maker."

“Josh, I told you to get a new coffeepot.”

“Well, now I’ll get one. We should head back,” Joshua says, eating the rest of Ester's muffin.

“I'm not hungry. Let’s go,” Ester says.

Joshua helps Ruth put on her jacket. “You called it the Ameerega trivialus. The correct term is Ameerega trivittatus.”

Ruth buttons up her jacket. “You called it a Giganteus Titaneus. It’s correct term is Titanus giganteus.”

“You are the smartest woman I know.”

“Do giant beetles kiss poisonous frogs?” Joshua asks. They kiss. “Yes, as a matter of fact, they do. And they like it,” Ruth says.

“Get a room, you two,” Ester says.

Joshua pulls out a Valentine’s Day card from his back pocket and hands it to Ruth. She pulls out a card from her jacket and hands it to him. They walk out of the Zoo holding hands.

Linguistic theories of humor, 2

This series of (unfunny) blog posts will attempt to distill parts of certain articles (see part 1) on "humor theory" into something interesting and intelligible to someone like me without a degree in English. No joke, it's harder than you might think to abstractly explain humor from the perspective of a linguist (which I'm definitely not). This part will discuss incongruity theory.

We use the references from part 1.
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Roughly speaking, the idea explained in my how-to books on joke writing is you need a setup and a payoff. The payoff should be incongruous relative to the setup. This is the basic idea behind incongruity theory. It is more general than that (eg, it explains the humor of some word puns), as we'll try to explain below.

Historically, the theory seems to have first arisen in the 1700s and 1800s in the writings of various philosophers (Francis Hutchenson, Schopenhauer, Hegel, Kant) and poets (James Beattie).

A precise version of this theory can be given in terms of pragmatics, which is (roughly speaking) the linguistic explanation of the rules of conversation and dialogue). Specifically, we recall Grice's cooperative principle.

Cooperative principle: Make your contribution as required by the accepted purpose of the conversation in which you are engaged.

This is often broken down into 4 components [A05].

• Maxim of quality: Your contribution should be true.
  
  In particular, don't say what you believe is false, and don't make a statement for which you lack adequate evidence.
  
• Maxim of relevance: Only make statements relevant to the conversation.
  
  
• Maxim of manner: Only make concise, clearly expressed and easily understood statements.
  
  In particular, Avoid obscure or ambiguous statements. Be brief and avoid over-explanation and/or repetition.
  
  
• Maxim of quantity: Be as informative as required.
  
  In particular, don't omit necessary details. Conversely, don't give unnecessary details or provide more information than is required.
  
  

In other words, when conversing, we try to be correct, relevant, clear and concise, and informative.

A joke, according to the incongruity theory of humor, is the description of a conversation or situation that violates one of Grice's maxims of cooperation. to paraphrase Krikmann [K06]: A joke is assumed to involves two different planes of content (sometimes called 'frames of reference,' 'isotopies,' 'schemas,' or 'scripts.'). These two contexts are mutually incompatible, but also include a certain common part which makes the shift from one to another possible. When
another interpretation that has so far remained hidden is found, a feeling of surprise and satisfaction arise, causing the reaction of laughter.

Example 1: A joke of Steven Wright fits into this (I'm going on memory here, so the words may not be exact):
"The other day I used spot remover on my dog. He disappeared."
The setup explains the first "plane of content": somehow, something was spilled on his dog's fur and he's trying to clean it off. The payoff
explains the second "plane of content": His dog is named Spot and we heard "spot remover" (a cleaning product) but what he said was "Spot remover." On the other hand, superiority theory would explain we are laughing at the dog owner for not knowing what Spot remover meant.

Neither of these theories (at least, as I've explained them) work to explain humor very well. Just because you violate one or more of Grice's maxims doesn't mean you are funny. While it does provide an observational language in which we can discuss jokes, it fails to define "funniness" in a precise way. In the next post, we look into a theory due to Victor Raskin [V79] which at least attempts to be even more precise.

It's only a finger (short story 8)

Over a year ago, as an exercise, I started writing one short story a week. This was something Harlan Ellison (I think) suggested to one of his fans, his reasoning being "You can't write 52 bad short stories in a row." I'm not sure about that, but here's one of those stories.
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Todd’s a long-haired snotty 16-year-old stoner who gets no respect from his stubborn tough-as-nails 3-star military father, BK. With a nose like a buzzard and a ram-rod straight backbone, BK, or Branford Klauzowitz to people who aren’t his friends, which is practically everyone, is focused 24/7 on his career. With a father and grandfather in the military, BK’s practically bred for it. He’s not just disciplined but so honest he’s relied on with the Pentagon’s top cyber-secrets. The only problem BK has is that while he may be stubborn, Todd’s even more so. Whatever gene or trait or mind- set BK’s developed to get where he is, Todd’s got it in spades. By the way, don’t remind BK that Todd likes to escape his unhappy adolescent life by reading PG Wodehouse. BK has other priorities and can’t be bothered reading British satires. He’s got enemies to fight and, in the little spare time he has, he’s got serious sports like baseball to watch. There’s no time for PGW nonsense. It’s a lonely life for Todd, and no surprise that he buries his nose in books.

To make a man of him, BK forces Todd go on camping trips, where he makes him learn ciphers and weapons and survival strategies (oh, my!). Todd just wants it to be over so he can get back to flexting (flirt texting) and playing video games and talking to girls (and, of course, reading PGW). Let’s just say they have a very testy relationship. But Todd’s friends envy him and wish they had such a cool Dad. Behind their back, BK calls all of Todd’s video-game playing friends “losers”. (“Why can’t they just join the JROTC or something?”) Face-to-face, Todd just wants to be left alone by BK but on the inside he wants his Dad’s acceptance and respect. It’s a rough assignment. Kids don’t get to choose their billet.

BK is way up there in the military pecking order of things and stationed in the White House. He’s in charge of network passwords and security schedules and travel arrangements for the President’s important upcoming peace conference. To make matters worst (for Todd), he insists Todd goes to work with him once in awhile. You know, to remind Todd what hot shit he is, as well as to keep Todd from playing video games with his loser buddies. Todd brings along PGW in paperback to keep him company.

The international arena itself is politically very unstable, North Korea playing no small part in this, a mirror of the tense relationship between BK and son. Wanna uess what happens now? Dad disappears. Not good news for the WH. Peace conference is threatened. Presidents travel schedule is changed. The DoD, DHS, FBI are on high alert to search for BK. Find. Him. Now. He’s got those damn passwords.

But it gets worst before it gets better. What’s next? Todd disappears, too. Not good news for Mom, who understandably goes fucking ape shit.

Bad guys from a mysterious rogue nation (rhyming with Forth Garia) wants BK’s damn DoD passwords. They’ve been watching him. They know he’s got them. And they’re using Todd as leverage. BK has withstood torture for days but all he repeats is his name, rank, and serial number. Hell, they’ve got all that, plus his credit rating and social security number – bought from the Chinese group that hacked OPM years ago. Now they have his son. They threaten to force BK to watch while they cut off Todd’s fingers, one at a time, if he doesn’t spill those passwords. BK is silent. They start cutting. Todd screams. Still nothing from BK. Then, shocker, Todd starts rattling off the first several characters of one of the passwords. It seems Todd is more observant than everyone thought when he's with his Dad at work.

BK orders Todd to stop, which he does. Todd and BK argue. BK tries to rationalize with Todd: “It’s only a finger.” Todd counters back: “My finger!” The bad guys stop cutting. They think this is pretty funny. For fun, they now go back to BK and threaten to cut off his fingers. Todd and BK are silent. As they cutting begins and BK screams in pain, Todd breaks down and gives the rest of the password. BK’s finger is spared. BK asks “Why son, why?” “It was only a password,” Todd says.

The bad guys separate BK and Todd into adjoining rooms in their basement hideout. The bad guys get to work hacking into the DoD network. Back in the WH, we see the DoD has people reprogramming on the computer network. They’ve were told by Todd, just before he was kidnapped, that he knows BK’s passwords, and they have already secured the rest of the network, but left passwords valid. The difference is that BK’s passwords open up a honeypot network. There’s more than one way to kill a pesky fly.

Todd and BK communicate using a “Tap Code” that BK taught Todd during one of those dreaded camping trips. Using it, they figure out how to short-circuit the electrical wiring, causing the fuse box to blow. In the dark, chaos and confusion, BK and Todd escape to the roof. They’ve been in a warehouse in east Baltimore.

Todd helps Dad down the rusty fire escape, who is in bad shape from his torture. They make it to a gas station where they tell FBI and DoD how to find the bad guys’ hideout. Todd gets hugged by crying hysterical mom. BK stays in hospital at Bethesda for a few days.
Long story short, peace conference goes on without interruption. The bad guys are arrested. In a big fancy ceremony, BK gets a Purple Heart. The world’s in a better place.

After recovering in a hospital, Todd asks Dad to go on another camping trip. Surprised, BK agrees. This time, Todd brings a copy of Wodehouse’s Blandings Castle with him. He’ll force good old Dad to read it. While BK got a Purple Heart, Todd’s got a heart of gold. Maybe old dogs can learn new tricks after all?