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| "AMERICA'S FUNNIEST HUMOR"TM
SHOWCASE
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October /
November 2006 Contest Results |
No
Oscars, No Grammies and No Masterpieces
By Ken Bobrosky,
Bahamas
I can’t act, I can’t sing and I can’t draw. I am a fine arts dropout and
I can blame it on my elementary school teachers. Teachers are always
being blamed for everything from George Bushes’ deductive reasoning
skills to the unexplainable love affair we have with Italian focaccio
bread. Why not pin them with my artistic failings?
Teachers prevented me from becoming a budding new Picasso, Meatloaf or
Pee Wee Herman. My first negative experience with teachers occurred in
Year One. An all-class concert promised to be the highlight of the
Christmas season. I fantasized about the part of Ernie the Inchworm, but
alas, it was not to be. After auditioning for all parts, five of us were
identified as dramatically and musically challenged six year olds.
Our group of five were sold a bill of goods that would have made Donnie
Trump proud. We were convinced that a small choir accompanying the
teacher, as she played the piano during the concert, was more important
than the main character roles. That’s like saying that ticket taker in
the Louvre played a critical role in the DaVinci Code movie. We did a
lot of self talk and persuaded each other that perhaps we would be the
next Osmond brothers.
Opening (and Closing) Night crackled with excitement. We gargled our six
year old throats and practiced our scales. The death blow was delivered
five minutes before the curtain went up (actually two kids holding the
ends of a pastel bed sheet). Our teacher thought it would be better if
our group assembled behind the piano, instead of beside it. Like singing
a lullaby besides a freeway - nobody would ever discover our Motown
talent.
The coup de gras - French for ‘kick in the ass’ - was the final
modification of our long awaited vocal debut. Our teacher informed us
that we were not going to be singing behind the piano, we were only
supposed to HUM the songs behind the piano. How humiliating! From a
potential record deal with Barry Gordie to a sound effects chorus for a
overheated motor.
My artistic talent was stymied by my Year Five teacher. In history
class, we were given a picture of a buffalo or bison and told to color
it. I thought I did a magnificent job. I didn’t color outside the lines
and even used two shades of brown. When my teacher returned my
magnificent prairie art to me and said, “Don’t you know that you don’t
color buffaloes up and down, you color them side to side?” I was
crushed. If you are ever required to accept the same artistic challenge
on some new TV Reality show just remember that when you color buffalo,
the rule is “tail to tongue and not hoof to horn.” Who knew!
My career in the dramatic arts was initially much more successful. In
Year One, I was awarded a major role in our class production of The
Three Little Pigs. I was the brick house. There were no lines to learn;
I just stood very still and held my two arms up in the air like a roof
and allowed the three pigs to find safety there. When our class won
first prize at a local drama festival, I knew my interpretation of a
brick house was a major contributor to our award.
My skills soon became legendary and by Year Four I won the lead in our
school production. I played a lumberjack and I pulled my crippled son
around the stage in a wagon. Unfortunately, during the premiere I pulled
the poor handicapped son too close to the edge of the stage. One wheel
of the wagon slipped off the stage and in an instant the play had to be
stopped to fish the wagon and its passenger out of the front row seats.
My stage career had reached its conclusion, far too prematurely
I know I could have rivaled Bobby Darin in song, or painted like Lautrec
or won a Oscar like Newman. As Brando said, “Ah, couda bin sum buddy!”
but I was foiled by a wagon wheel, a buffalo and a tin ear for music.
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