Middle School: Get Me Out of Here! (25 page)

H
ave you ever done something extremely stupid like, oh, I don’t know, try to make a room filled with total strangers laugh until their sides hurt?

Totally dumb, right?

Well, that’s why my humble story is going to start with some pretty yucky tension—plus a little heavy-duty drama (and, hopefully, a few funnies so we don’t all go nuts).

Okay, so how, exactly, did I get into this mess—up onstage at a comedy club, baking like a bag of French fries under a hot spotlight that shows off my sweat stains (including one that sort of looks like Jabba the Hutt), with about a thousand beady eyeballs drilling into me?

A very good question that you ask.

To tell you the truth, it’s one
I’m
asking, too!

What am I, Jamie Grimm, doing here trying to win something called the Planet’s Funniest Kid Comic Contest?

What was I thinking?

But wait. Hold on. It gets even worse.

While the whole audience stares and waits for me to say something (anything) funny, I’m up here choking.

That’s right—my mind is a
total and complete blank
.

And I just said, “No, I’m Jamie Grimm.”

That’s the punch line. The
end
of a joke.

All it needs is whatever comes
before
the punch line. You know—all the stuff
I can’t remember
.

So I sweat some more. The audience stares some more.

I don’t think this is how a comedy act is supposed to go. I’m pretty sure
jokes
are usually involved. And people laughing.

“Um, hi.” I finally squeak out a few words. “The other day at school, we had this substitute teacher.
Very tough. Sort of like Mrs. Darth Vader. Had the heavy breathing, the deep voice. During roll call, she said, ‘Are you chewing gum, young man?’ And I said, ‘No, I’m Jamie Grimm.’ ”

I wait (for what seems like hours) and, yes, the audience kind of chuckles. It’s not a huge laugh, but it’s a start.

Okay.
Phew
. I can tell a joke. All is not lost. Yet. But hold on for a sec. We need to talk about something else. A major twist to my tale.

“A major twist?” you say. “Already?”

Yep. And, trust me, you weren’t expecting this one.

To be totally honest, neither was I.

H
i.

Presenting me. Jamie Grimm. The sit-down comic.

So, can you deal with this? Some people can. Some can’t. Sometimes even
I
can’t deal with it (like just about every morning, when I wake up and look at myself in the mirror).

But you know what they say: “If life gives you lemons, learn how to juggle.”

Or, even better, learn how to make people laugh.

So that’s what I decided to do.

Seriously. I tried to teach myself how to be funny. I did a whole bunch of homework and read every joke book and joke website I could find, just so I could become a comedian and make people laugh.

I guess you could say I’m obsessed with being a stand-up comic—even though I don’t exactly fit the job description.

But unlike a lot of homework (algebra, you know I’m talking about
you
), this was fun.

I got to study all the greats: Jon Stewart, Jerry Seinfeld, Kevin James, Ellen DeGeneres, Chris Rock, Steven Wright, Joan Rivers, George Carlin.

I also filled dozens of notebooks with jokes I made up myself—like my second one-liner at the comedy contest.

“Wow, what a crowd,” I say, surveying the audience. “Standing room only. Good thing I brought my own chair.”

It takes a second, but they laugh—right after I let them know it’s okay, because
I’m
smiling, too.

This second laugh? Well, it’s definitely bigger than that first chuckle. Who knows—maybe I actually have a shot at winning this thing.

So now I’m not only nervous, I’m
pumped
!

I really, really,
really
(and I mean really) want to take my best shot at becoming the Planet’s Funniest Kid Comic.

Because, in a lot of ways, my whole life has been leading up to this one sweet (if sweaty) moment in the spotlight!

B
ut, hey, I think we’re getting ahead of ourselves.

We should probably go back to the beginning—or at least
a
beginning.

So let’s check out a typical day in my ordinary, humdrum life in Long Beach, a suburb of New York City—back before my very strange appearance at the Ronkonkoma Comedy Club.

Here’s me, just an average kid on an average day in my average house as I open our average door and head off to an average below-average school.

Zombies are
everywhere
.

Well, that’s what I see. You might call ’em “ordinary people.” To me, these scary people stumbling down the sidewalks are the living dead!

A pack of brain-numb freaks who crawl out of the ground every morning and shuffle off to work. They’re waving at me, grunting “Hul-lo, Ja-mie!” I wave and grunt back.

So what streets do my freaky zombie friends like best? The dead ends, of course.

Fortunately, my neighbors move extremely slowly (lots of foot-dragging and Frankenstein-style lurching). So I never really have to worry about them running me down to scoop out my brains like I’m their personal pudding cup.