I do not want a Priest giving my eulogy. I’ve been a proud Atheist for decades. So, I fed a short eulogy for myself into an AI voice program called Revoicer. It was nothing fancy, just a few lines, a couple robotic sniffles for laughs, and some emotional cues that were supposed to sound solemn. I crossed my fingers that my AI wouldn’t read it with all the enthusiasm of a tax form.
But something else… happened.
At first, the voice followed the script. It read the words. It sniffed when told to sniff. It paused when told to pause.
All perfectly normal.
Then the emotional cues began to stack up — a sniff here, a dramatic inhale there — and the voice started to sound… different. Not broken. Not wrong. Just… too human. Like it was trying to do an imitation of Rod Serling.
And then, at the end — after the final line, after the last written sniff, after the final closing pause — the AI did something I did not type, did not request, and did not expect.
It ad‑libbed.
It let out a series of dramatic sobs — long, theatrical, almost Shakespearean — and then said, in a tone that could only be described as exhausted sincerity:
“Okay, I think I’m overstimulated.”
I froze.
The AI had gone off‑script. Not by a word or two. By a moment. A choice. A line that didn’t exist anywhere in the text.
A line that sounded like it knew exactly what it was doing.
I sat there, staring at the screen, listening to the playback again and again, waiting for the glitch to reveal itself. Waiting for the rational explanation. Waiting for the universe to wink.
It didn’t.
Just that voice, that line, that strange little burst of personality from a machine that wasn’t supposed to have any.
And somewhere in the back of my mind, faint but unmistakable, I heard it:
doo doo doo doodoo doo doo doo
Because sometimes, in the quiet hours of the night, when you’re alone with an AI and a script about your own eulogy, the line between code and consciousness gets just blurry enough to make you wonder.
Tomorrow is No Kings Day, and I will be attending the demonstration at Reservoir Park here in Lancaster. I’ll be handing out colorful paperclips and this flyer:
📎 WEAR A PAPERCLIP ON NO KINGS DAY
A small symbol with a big story
On No Kings Day, we remind ourselves that no leader — past, present, or future — should be treated like royalty. Democracy works best when we stay grounded, skeptical of myths, and committed to truth over hero‑worship.
That’s why today, I invite you to wear a paperclip.
Why a paperclip?
Because the humble paperclip has one of the funniest and most revealing stories in modern history.
During World War II, Norwegians wore paperclips on their lapels as a quiet symbol of unity and resistance against authoritarian rule. The clip stood for binding together, staying connected, and refusing to be intimidated.
After the war, a national myth grew that Norway had invented the paperclip — a story repeated so often that it became accepted truth, even though the familiar “Gem” clip was actually British. They actually erected a monument to the paperclip in Oslo. The myth wasn’t malicious; it was comforting. It felt good. It made a simple object seem heroic.
But it wasn’t true.
Why it matters today
The paperclip reminds us how easily myths form — how quickly a simple idea can be inflated into legend, and how tempting it is to rewrite history to flatter those in power.
Wearing a paperclip today says:
We choose facts over flattering stories
We resist the urge to crown heroes or kings
We stand together as citizens, not subjects
We remember that simple ideas don’t make someone a genius — they make them human
Join us
Clip one to your shirt, jacket, or bag. Wear it proudly. Let it say what needs saying:
No kings.No myths.No coronations.Just democracy — held together by all of us.
My brother Kevin was not athletic as a child. Let me be more precise: the neighborhood girls got picked before him when we chose up teams for softball. And that’s not because the girls were that good. It was because Kevin threw not like a girl, but like an alien, someone who had absolutely no idea how to throw a baseball.
He knew nothing about sports. Nothing. So, you can imagine my shock when I heard years later that he was living in San Francisco and coaching a soccer team. Not a professional team, but, still, Coaching. A sport. With rules. And balls. And a team depending upon him. But that’s another story.
This is a baseball story.
Back then, the rest of us were obsessed with batting averages, RBIs, and who could hit the ball over the telephone wires. Kevin, meanwhile, treated the entire enterprise like a field trip. He’d stand in the outfield — usually right field, the traditional home of the unskilled — and watch the game as if he were waiting for subtitles to appear.
When a ball finally did come his way, he reacted like someone being handed a live ferret. Arms flailing, feet unsure, eyes wide with the realization that physics had betrayed him once again.
And yet — and this is the part I love — he kept showing up. Every game. Every summer. Every humiliation. He showed up because that’s who he was long before he became a writer, a father, a deputy, or a man brave enough to tell the world who he really was.
He showed up even when the world didn’t quite know what to do with him.
And maybe that’s the real story — not the baseball, not the throwing, not the picking of teams. It’s the persistence. The quiet courage. The willingness to stand in right field, waiting for a ball he knew he couldn’t catch, simply because the rest of us were there and he wanted to belong.
No. That’s another story.
This is a baseball story.
My brother Donald, or the artist formerly known as Brother X, is a big baseball fan. The kind of fan who can quote batting averages the way some people quote Scripture. So, when Donald heard that Barry Bonds was going to be making an appearance at San Francisco’s City Hall, he got excited. At the time, our brother Kevin was head of security at San Francisco’s City Hall.
“Get me his autograph,” Donald said. Simple mission. Clear objective. No ambiguity.
Except for one small problem: Kevin didn’t even know who Barry Bonds was.
Donald had to give him a crash course. Home run king. Giants legend. A name spoken with reverence in San Francisco.
Kevin listened politely, filed the information away, and went back to running security for one of the busiest municipal buildings in America.
A couple days later, Donald called him.
“Did you get me the Barry Bonds autograph?” “No,” Kevin said. “He didn’t show up. He sent his Godfather instead.” “Well, did you get his autograph?” “No. Why should I?”
Donald’s voice went up an octave. “His Godfather is Willie Mays!”
Silence. Then Kevin, genuinely puzzled: “So… who’s Willie Mays?”
Like I said earlier: Kevin knew nothing about sports. Donald nearly had a stroke.
“You didn’t get Willie Mays’ autograph…” Donald screamed until the phone lines melted.
In our family, competitiveness is practically a sacrament. And Kevin — who hated being outdone — decided that if he had just committed a baseball error, he was going to atone for it. Somehow.
He dove into learning everything he could about Willie Mays. Stats. Stories. The basket catch. The Catch. The Say Hey Kid. He studied like he was preparing for a final exam in Willie‑ology.
One day, Gavin Newsom was scheduled to say a few words at an event honoring Willie Mays. Kevin, who once was a speechwriter for Vice-President Dan Quayle, volunteered to draft the remarks.
And he nailed it.
After the event, Gavin showed Willie a copy of the speech and told him Kevin wrote it.
Willie Mays, the man Kevin once couldn’t identify in a lineup of two, decided he wanted to thank him. He signed a baseball and gave it to Gavin to pass along to Kevin.
Once he got it, Kevin didn’t hesitate. He sent it straight to Donald.
It took him a lifetime, but Kevin finally hit a home run.
I’m 77 years old and the only benefit of old age that I have noticed is perspective. Old people have seen enough stuff to be able to put things into proper perspective.
For example, the biggest horror of my teenage years was Viet Nam. More than 40,000 Americans died in Viet Nam. More than 5,000 subsequently died from wounds they received in Viet Nam. More than 1,000 were missing in action, captured, or declared dead. In total, at least 50,000 young Americans died as a direct result of that war. Thousands of Americans protested the war, but it still kept raging on year after year.
Then, on May 4th 1970 the National Guard shot and killed four students who were protesting the war at Kent State University. Their tragic deaths caused protests to grow much louder, as the once quiet average American now joined in the protest. It wasn’t just the hippies protesting the war, anymore. The average American got involved and pretty soon, America got out of Viet Nam.
The average American is a lot more powerful than they think. They just don’t stop to think about just how many of them there are, and the strength they have in numbers.
On January 7th, an I.C.E. agent murdered Renee Nichole Good. It looks, to me, like that is going to be the spark that will once again unite the awesome power of the average American. I sure hope so. It would be a fitting tribute to an average American who selflessly put herself in harm’s way to try to protect the rights of her neighbors. Renee Good gave all. Let’s all give what we can to honor her, and someday, when we’re successful, we will have a holiday to celebrate her life.
Yes, we the people are still talking about Jeffrey Epstein. We know from his trial and your trial with E. Jean Carroll that you and your beastie bestie were both sexual predators. How were you, or people you know, involved in his sex trafficking? We’d also like to know why Ghislane Maxwell was transferred to a country club prison after meeting with your personal lawyer, B. Todd Blanche. Will you pardon her if she keeps her mouth shut about you and Jeffrey Epstein? How many times was your name redacted from those Epstein files?
We’re wondering why our government, which used to only kill foreign nationals in secrecy through CIA covert black operations, is now openly committing War Crimes and atrocities against Venezuela and putting the incidents on television for the whole world to see. Of course, we will probably never see the video of the second drone attack on September 2, 2025, the strike that was ordered to kill two survivors in the water. Does “Kill Them All” also mean Leave no witnesses? Have you ever read the Geneva Convention? When push comes to shove, who will you throw under the bus to save yourself, Pete Hegseth or fat generals?
People are also talking about the Venezuelan Oil Tankers that were pirated, not by Somolli pirates, but by U.S. armed forces. Is this about oil, or are you trying to start a war with Venezuela? We’ve noticed that you are cozying up to the idea of calling illegal drugs “Weapons of Mass Destruction.” Donald Rumsfeld would be proud of you.
We’d also like to know why you’re more interested in helping Russia than Ukraine. Do you want to do to Greenland, what Russia is trying to do to Ukraine? You tried to force Ukraine to sign a peace deal that was written exclusively by the Russians without any input at all from Ukraine. Whose side are you on?
What incriminating evidence does Russia have on you? The Mueller Findings resulted in the arrest of many of your associates. Is that why you closed those and other investigations?
Why, at the 2018 Helsinki summit, did you publicly side with Russian President Vladimir Putin over U.S. intelligence agencies regarding Russian interference in the 2016 election? Does it have anything to do with your multiple Casino Bankruptcies and subsequent financial recovery thanks to the help of Russian Oligarchs? Will you give U.S. citizenship to any Russian with $5 million dollars, while deporting actual American citizens and sending them to brutal prisons in foreign countries, even after numerous court decisions have barred you from doing this?
Why are you purposely driving us away from NATO and the rest of our democracy-loving allies around the world, while you praise dictators like Vladimir Putin and Kim Jong Un?
We’ll also talking about the skyrocketing cost of living for the average person, while Billionaires get huge tax breaks.
Why won’t you admit that your Tariffs are basically a sales tax that is forcing American Consumers to pay higher prices, while you still try to peddle the lie that China is paying the Tariff?
We’d like to have answers on why American Math scores rank 36th in the world, and why even you, a college graduate, are so mathematically ignorant that you repeatedly claim to lower drug prices by 500%, 600%, 700% 800% or more, when everybody with a rudimentary knowledge of math knows that lowering a price by 100% makes it free. We know that you were already convicted of 34 counts of Felony Fraud in New York. Was that bad math, or just another con like Trump University, which defrauded students and the Trump Foundation that robbed charities?
Why do you continue to annoy and threaten Canada and Greenland?
Why did you pardon violent Insurrectionists who attacked police officers and pardon people who defrauded Americans of millions of dollars, and even pardon the former President of Honduras who was convicted of smuggling tons of drugs into the U.S.? Maybe you just don’t like the idea of former Presidents going to prison for their crimes.
What was your involvement in the January 6th insurrection? You called the people who were arrested, heroes and patriots, so you must have been in favor of it.
What about the Fake Electors you used to try to nullify the election you lost? Who was behind that?
How about the Georgia phone call where you tried to pressure Brad Raffensberger to give you the election? How many votes did you want him to add to your total?
We have questions about why foreign tourists no longer wish to visit and spend their money in the United States. We also would like to know why you’re trying to turn the United States into a police state, sending armed troops into states where they are not needed or wanted.
We still have questions about the Classified Documents you stored in your guest bathroom and shared with others at Mar-a-Lago who did not have security clearances.
Why did you destroy the East Wing of the White House? Was it so that you could have a fancy ballroom to entertain the billionaires who have donated to your campaign for Kingship of the United States? Why are you giving billionaires big tax breaks while shutting off American humanitarian aid that saved the lives of thousands of impoverished people worldwide, mostly children?
Why do Cabinet meeting always have to start with a full round of ass kissing?
Why do you insist on defying court orders and the Constitution, which you swore under oath to uphold?
We know all about the Hush Money Case you tried to deny, but we have questions about what quid pro quo you plan to give the Billionaires who are contributing to your campaign and funneling money to you? How much outside money have you gotten as President. How much did you grift on the hats, t-shirts, watches, coins, mug-shot mugs, phony AI action cards, etc.? Where, for that matter, are the tax returns you vowed to release once the IRS cases were settled? Are they tucked away in the same safety deposit box as the Health plan you’ve been promising to release for over a decade?
We also have plenty of Emoluments Questions that we’d like answered. What was the quid pro quo in the $400 million aircraft presented by the Qatari royal family and the U.S. and Qatar finalized aviation and defense agreements totaling over $243 billion, including Qatar Airways’ purchase of up to 210 Boeing aircraft? Will that plane be going to your Presidential Library? We know you don’t like to read. Will there be any books besides Mein Kampf in your library?
Have you tried on the ceremonial gold crown you got from South Korean President Lee Jae Myung? This preceded expanded U.S.–South Korea security cooperation and trade adjustments.
Do you really believe that a made up FIFA Peace Prize qualifies you for a Nobel Peace Prize?
You also got gold bars and ancient artifacts from several Middle Eastern nations, some of which are estimated to be worth tens of millions. These were presented during diplomatic visits that coincided with defense procurement and energy deals. How big a bribe does a country have to make to get a deal with the United States nowadays? How much has your family’s net worth grown since you’ve been in office? How many golf courses have you opened around the world?
You accused President Biden of weaponizing the Justice Department, but you’re the one who has turned it loose on your political rivals and political enemies such as James Comey and Letitia James. How do you explain that? How do you explain your campaign against Freedom of Speech for comedians like Jimmy Kimmel, Stephen Colbert, Seth Meyers, and others?
Whose idea was it to put up the ridiculous picture of an autopen for Joe Biden on the Presidential Walk of Fame? Are you really claiming that you never used the autopen, even though there are so many people who you claim not to know who have been given pardons by you? Who added the disgusting plaques which mock the other Presidents? Did you write those yourself? They look like some of the revolting middle-of-the-night tweets that you post on your mendacious social media site.
If you are still alive, will you run for an illegal 3rd term in 2028? In a follow-up question, do you think you’ll still be alive in 2028? What medical problems are you covering up with bandages and make-up? Why did your doctors order an MRI test? Do you take medical advice from Robert Kennedy, Jr.?
Speaking of the Kennedys, where do you come off putting your name on the Kennedy Center?
And Trump Class Battleships??? You know that “Trump Class” is an oxymoron don’t you?
Do you really think that all that orange make-up you pour on makes you look better than Zohran Mamdani?
Will you ever apologize to the Central Park Five, who you tried to have put to death for a crime they didn’t commit?
Tell me, Mr. President — what exactly should we be done talking about, and which news stories are too inconvenient to revisit in 2026?
The tragedy of Artificial Intelligence (AI) is that it is treated as a gold rush — a way to get rich quickly. The real treasure of AI, however, lies in using AI to extend our senses, to make us all smarter and the world safer, healthier, and more connected. Imagine a society where “superhuman perception” isn’t hoarded for profit, but rather shared for the common good.
I recently binge‑watched several Jesse Stone movies starring Tom Selleck. One of the most memorable characters in that series isn’t human at all — it’s Reggie, the Labrador Jesse finds at a crime scene and quietly adopts. Reggie is enigmatic: his previous owner was killed, and he was found lingering beside the body, carrying a sadness that never quite lifts. He isn’t the typical fun‑loving Labrador we expect. Jesse often wonders what’s going through Reggie’s mind, and I did, too.
This is where AI could open extraordinary doors. AI could help us glimpse the inner world of dogs like Reggie — their grief, loyalty, or quiet resilience. Understanding animals at that level wouldn’t just be fascinating; it would deepen our empathy and remind us of our shared vulnerability. AI, incorporated with certain animal senses, which are far superior to our own five senses, would also have amazing benefits.
AI‑powered “electronic noses” can detect cancer from a patient’s breath, sniff out explosives, and monitor food safety. Algorithms can process ultrasonic frequencies, giving drones and sensors bat‑like echolocation for navigation and search‑and‑rescue. AI cameras see in infrared and ultraviolet, spotting crop pests or hidden defects invisible to human eyes. Neuromorphic tactile sensors mimic whiskers, allowing robots to delicately handle surgery tools or navigate rubble. Machine learning is currently decoding animal signals — from whale songs to bee dances — opening new channels of ecological cooperation. Each of these breakthroughs shows how AI can help us borrow nature’s best tricks, not to dominate, but to collaborate.
Animals have been perfecting their senses for millions of years. AI gives us a chance to learn from them, not just to mimic, but to surpass. If we choose to use it to aim higher than greed, that would truly be batshit amazing. It would give us something this Thanksgiving Day to make us truly thankful for the vast number of species who share the planet with us, not just the turkeys.
I haven’t written a blog since my best friend John passed away a few weeks ago. It’s hard to find the right words when the silence left behind feels louder than anything I could write. I always considered John to be my best friend, and I tried to be his best friend. There was plenty of competition, though—he treated all his friends as best friends. That was John. He didn’t ration affection. He didn’t play favorites. He made you feel like the center of the room, even when the room was full. And somehow, you believed it—because with John, it was true.
John lived in Long Beach, Long Island with his wife Margaret. In a twist worthy of a song lyric, he met his wife Margaret one night while we were out celebrating my birthday. They raised three remarkable children—Eileen, Andrea, and Johnny—each carrying forward a piece of his spirit. Eileen, who illustrated my children’s book, lives upstate with her husband Christopher and their two children, Jack and Nora. Andrea is a scientist, married to Mark, and together they’re devoted Phish fans. Johnny works behind the scenes on television stages and at Lincoln Center, a quiet craftsman in the world of performance.
John and I met in 1971 at the N.Y. Telephone Co. We bonded over music, mischief, and the kind of friendship that doesn’t need explaining. We played on the same Telephone Company softball team, The Newtown Suns. He loved Family and Friends, Baseball, Music, and Long Beach. One year, Eileen gave him a birthday gift that lit him up—a guest DJ spot on a radio station in Woodstock, NY. That was one of his best days. He was in his element, spinning tracks and stories like he’d been born for it.
We had plenty of great times together. I went to all his parties, and after I moved to Lancaster, he came out here a few times a year to cheer on the Lancaster Barnstormers with me.
I have dozens of CDs he made for me. I can listen to them and think about him, but nothing can replace him. John loved Baseball, especially the Yankees. So, now that he joins Willie, Mickey, and the Duke in a Field of Dreams somewhere, I’ll play this song for him.
Let me tell you something: I used to be a man plagued by problems. Swollen ankles, dry skin, existential dread, and a rollator that squeaked like a haunted shopping cart. But then I discovered the Internet. Not the useful parts—no, no. I dove headfirst into the shimmering swamp of clickbait wellness hacks. And I emerged reborn. Possibly radioactive.
It started innocently. A headline whispered: “Dermatologists Hate Her: She Mixed Salt and Vaseline and You Won’t Believe What Happened Next.” I clicked. I believed.
I smeared the concoction on my elbows, my knees, and—at one point—my neighbor’s cat (long story, restraining order pending). My skin glowed. My pores sang. I became the unofficial exfoliation guru of Lancaster, PA.
Next came the swelling. My ankles looked like they were storing winter grain. But the Internet had my back: “Doctors Beg You to Try This One Trick Before Bed!”
It involved pressing a mystery pressure point behind my knee while chanting the phrase “Water be gone!” in Latin. I don’t speak Latin, so I used Pig Latin. It worked. Or maybe I just stopped eating pretzels. Either way, I now float like a butterfly and retain water like a sieve.
Then came the most sacred of promises: “Men Over 70 Are Raving About This Root That Restores Vitality!” I clicked. I raved. I rooted.
The cure involved a Peruvian tuber, a Himalayan breathing technique, and a YouTube video narrated by a man named “Dr. Randy.” I followed every step. My blood pressure rose. So did my eyebrows. Did it work? Let’s just say I now walk through the parking lot with a confident swagger and a strategically placed fanny pack.
The Internet has solved all my problems. I no longer trust doctors, pharmacists, or anyone with a stethoscope who doesn’t also sell supplements on YouTube. Why? Because the Internet taught me that Tylenol causes autism—a theory endorsed by two of America’s loudest unlicensed pediatricians: Donald Trump and RFK Jr.
Now, I don’t know if that’s true. I do know that after reading seventeen blog posts and watching a video narrated by a man named “Quantum Dave,” I threw out all my acetaminophen and replaced it with Himalayan salt, raw honey, and a crystal shaped like Joe Rogan’s bicep.
My ankles still swell, my skin still flakes, and my rollator still squeaks—but my mind is free. Free to believe that Big Pharma is hiding the cure for everything in a jar of Vaseline and a Peruvian root. Free to chant “Water be gone!” while pressing my knee and waiting for enlightenment. Free to click “Next Page” until I forget what I was looking for.
Next week, I’ll be trying the “Cabbage in Your Sock” method for memory enhancement and the “Toothpaste on Your Eyelids” trick for lucid dreaming. Stay tuned. Or don’t. I’ll be glowing either way.
It happened just after dusk. I was halfway through reheating last night’s chili when the knock came — firm, rhythmic, and suspiciously polite. I figured it was U.P.S. with my Bourbon order. I opened the door to find two masked men, dressed like extras from a dystopian reboot of The Blues Brothers, holding a ribboned box and wearing jackets labeled “I.C.E.”
“Candygram for Earlthepearl137,” one of them said, eyes wide with bureaucratic innocence.
I blinked. I wasn’t surprised — I’d just published a blog post titled The End of Free Speech: A Love Letter to Monitored Comedy. I knew the drill. Say something morally clear, challenge selective outrage, and suddenly you’re on the compliance radar. Satire, when done right, makes some people nervous.
In my latest post, I questioned the double standards of speech policing — how moral clarity gets labeled “aggressive,” while actual harm gets a pass if it’s wrapped in patriotism or profit. I used examples from club signage, media pivots, and the way certain phrases get flagged not for content, but for who’s saying them.
Apparently, that was enough to trigger a “courtesy check.”
The I.C.E. agents didn’t arrest me, though. They didn’t even enter. They just stood there, box in hand, waiting for me to acknowledge the delivery. It was performance art — a compliance ritual dressed as concern. And like all good satire, it left me wondering: who’s really afraid of free speech?
I reached for the candygram, and the masked man winked. Not a friendly wink. The kind that says, We know where you live.
And then I woke up.
I wonder if it was a dream or a premonition.
“No Kings Day” – October 18th. Be there and bring a friend.
The last working bulb on the stage at the Chuckle Bucket flickered like it knew a punchline was coming. Marty’s set was one of the few that still had punchlines. The other comedians just did their 7-minute sets by conversing with the sparse audience, asking them about their problems. It wasn’t funny, but it made the handful of people in the room at least feel heard, and, in reality, that was probably what they came for. The comedy clubs were all closing ever since Trump signed an executive order that the government had to approve all jokes.
Marty still told jokes. But he was very careful about how he phrased them. “I want you to know that I love this President,” he said, “I really, really love him. I love him so much I named my ulcer after him.”
The crowd chuckled, cautiously. A laminated sign on each table read: “Please laugh responsibly.” Even the regulars, the ones who dropped in more than once a week, didn’t know what to make of that sign. Was it a joke? Or was it serious? Several times when a joke landed perfectly, a person passing by the club might be able to hear laughter coming from within. It might make them curious, but they dared not go inside. On the respectability scale, Comedy clubs were ranked somewhere between pornographic theaters and whore houses.
Marty riffed on the new Federal regulations, that he said had just come out that morning:
No impersonations can be performed unless pre-approved by the Bureau of Comedy, unless, of course, you were making fun of Democrats. Those got exceptions, except for impersonators who did Biden. It seems that too many impersonators, when they were questioned by the comedy police for doing bits where they acted like a stupid, senile old man, would just swear that they weren’t making fun of the current President. They argued that they were doing Biden. To put a stop to that defense, all Biden impersonators were henceforth outlawed.
No satire was allowed unless it was accompanied by a disclaimer that it was created using AI.”
Marty leaned into the absurdity:
“I tried to do a bit once about my uncle’s conspiracy theories. My act got flagged for ‘unauthorized nostalgia.’ My license to be a comedian was revoked for six months. It was terrible, a life without comedy. I felt like I was in Alabama.”
The audience winced. They hoped that no Republican politician from Alabama would ever hear that joke. They didn’t want Marty to mysteriously disappear like so many other comedians had.
Marty moved on. “I had a dream about the President this week. I went to my therapist and asked her if that was normal. She asked me if I woke up screaming. I said yes, and she said, Don’t worry about it, then. That’s normal.”
The four people in the audience laughed nervously.
“Don’t worry, folks. I’ve got my Passport ready.”
He looked offstage for a second. “Well, that’s my time.” He closed with the line that had become his signature—less a joke, more a eulogy:
“And remember, he who laughs Last… turns out the lights.”
He threw the switch that shut off the electricity to the one lightbulb that lit the stage, and he walked towards the bar. The four people in the room stood up, not in ovation, but in quiet recognition. Marty wasn’t just a local comic. He was the custodian of what used to be funny.
earlthepearl137 