This page last updated 19 February 2003

Con-Foundation

by Richard Schwartz (rex@kf6.so-net.ne.jp)
1980-ish

 

Terminex - (pronounced Terminex) located Galactic Quadrant 36, Sector 24, Prefect 36. To most of the Galactic Empire, this was hopelessly out of reach, but Veri Seldom found that 36-24-36 matched his desires perfectly ... His choice would figure in much of the history of the Foundation and the development of Terminex while the rest of the Empire went bust. Terminex was also noted for its total lack of ... and the conspicuous absence of ...

Saliva Hardon had been Mayor of Terminex City for three years. He had thought that it might make him like the place more, but he was mistaken. The only way to enjoy Terminex was from a distance of several parsecs. All of the buildings were in disrepair and hopelessly outdated, and had been ever since they'd been built fifty years before. Amazingly, even though the planet was comprised entirely of small islands, the beaches were always crowded. He could do nothing to stem the growing population of undesirables, especially since they made up 90% of the population, and had given him a landslide victory into office. In fact, he could think of no reason for staying among them, other than that he enjoyed being the funniest person on the planet. "A world full of gag writers" he was fond of saying, "and not one who can take a joke."

Lewis Pirouette, Chairman of the Bored for the Humor Foundation, publishers of the Joke Book Galactica, was hard at work at his desk when Hardon barged in, flipping his trademark half-credit coin.

"I've got a riddle for you, Lewis. Why did the chicken cross the road?"

Pirouette looked up over his glasses. One contained whiskey and the other a pale beer. "Riddles was last year, Saliva. Check the index, subchapter Chicken."

"I don't want the book answer. There's a million possibilities. I want you to come up with one, off the top of your head."

"It is not my job to invent new answers, Hardon, just to catalog the old ones."

"All right then, give me one of the old ones. From memory."

Pirouette turned gracefully to his computer, his fingers danced upon the keys. The computer announced, "'To plot the vectors of a b-differential.' Answer intelligible only to infra-space architects who have read Gone With the Solar Wind."

Hardon shook his head in disgust and continued tossing his coin. It landed in his hand, with the face of Veri Seldom peering up at him. Ugly as Seldom's face was, Saliva much preferred it to the picture on the other side of the coin. "Not the computer's memory. Your memory. Can't you even remember the jokes you record so faithfully? Fifty years you've been at this job, fifty years, and humor has all but disappeared in this part of the galaxy. You're so busy chronicling old comedy you've forgotten how to come up with more."

Pirouette spun on him. "Do I need to remind you that we are here for the Veri reason you have just ridiculed? We are putting this culture in escrow for future generations. Our thousand-year investment will be repaid amply at the end of that time."

Hardon lost interest. "I just came to tell you that it's time to check the Seldom Vault in the capital. NOW. That's the principal reason I'm here."

"That was kind of you, withdrawing on my account."

Seldom's ugly face again landed on Mayor Hardon's palm. Hardon grimaced and flipped him off.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Everybody who was anybody on Terminex filed into the 300-seat auditorium. The remaining 250 seats were empty. Pirouette glided to the front of the room and joined the other luminaries clustered around the holograph machine, which was to present to them a message recorded by Seldom half a century before, to be played only on the occasion of the Foundation's fiftieth anniversary. Among the notables present were the planet's jokeographers, gagmeisters, punslingers and gym teachers, of whom none had the slightest idea how to work this particular holograph machine, or any holograph machine, for that matter. They resorted to the time-honored techniques of cursing it, kicking it, and utterly failing to make it work. It just sat there, with one lonely light beaming the message "One coin one play."

Finally Hardon could resist no longer, and cleared his throat. The resultant gob of phlegm served to silence the one dignitary who couldn't take a hint.

"Y'know," he began, "we've all commented on how funny it was for Seldom to make his holograph machine in the shape of a giant juke box, accurate even down to the coin slot and the lettered push buttons. But I think you've forgotten," he continued, "that as famous a comedian as Seldom was, he was an even more famous cheapskate. Maybe," he continued to continue, "the coin slot is real." He flipped his half-credit one last time, behind his back, over his head, through the air and into the slot. "You see, it's not a jukebox," he continued one last time, "it's a JOKE BOX." The machinery instantly roared to life, and a display lit up, reading "What seven letters do you say to an empty refrigerator?"

Everyone stared at each other. One limerick specialist muttered, " Are you sure this is the right vault?"

Hardon chided them. "C'mon, everybody, this is easy. I was right. You've been too long in the laboratory. You've forgotten the practical applications." He reached up to the lettered keyboard and tapped out the response to the question. "O-I-C-U-R-M-T."

Inside the clear partition, a mechanical arm twisted, selected a record, and placed it on the turntable. As it began spinning, a figure materialized above it. It was that of a wizened old man, decrepit with age and confined to the confines of a wheelchair, and yet whose amber eyes sparkled clear, belying the age betrayed by his features. He spoke, in digital stereo.

"Hi gang. No need to introduce myself, since my picture is on every stamp, calendar and T-shirt. In fact, this joke box was programmed to start only if the coin you put in had my face on the front. That was a nice touch, by the way, putting my buns on the other side. Shows you're on the right track.

"Before I go on, I'd better warn you that I'm not going to be a very popular guy in the next few minutes. Basically, I've been putting you on. You've been working your tails off for the last fifty years, all for what you think is a good cause – the re-comedization of the Universe. In fact, you've been wasting your time. The Humor Foundation is a joke ... and that is no play on words!

"Here, I'll prove it to you. Question: When is an innovation not a novelty? Answer: Yes, the other Airedale broke the pinball."

From the gravity of his statement, and indeed from the general air of worship in which Seldom was held, everyone in the room felt compelled to have a reaction to what he said – any reaction. Unfortunately, none was forthcoming. The stupefaction of Seldom's audience was complete.

"It doesn't take much guessing to know that you are now staring at each other, wondering if you had heard me wrong. In fact, that is the funniest joke of my time. You can't see my camera crew, but they're laughing their heads off. I can hardly say it myself without smiling. And yet to you it is incomprehensible. In fifty short years you have lost the popular idioms, conventions and culture which make this joke so funny.

"That is why I say the Joke Book Galactica is not worth the silicon it's encoded on. If fifty years has such an effect, what will happen in a thousand? Mankind may not even speak the same language by then. No, the Seldom Foundation is a trick I've played on you. You have been put there for an entirely different reason. I just can't tell you what it is.

"Before I go on, let me explain something about my science of stand-up psychology. I use it to anticipate the future of comedy on a Galaxy-wide scale. I can predict future events with extreme accuracy – provided they are funny." Seldom turned his head. His gaze impaled Saliva Hardon. "By the way, Mr. Mayor, your zipper's down." Hardon automatically glanced down to check, (it wasn't) then suddenly realized the full meaning of the exchange. A man fifty years dead had just picked him out of a crowd and played him for a fool. Wide-eyed, astonished, he looked back at Seldom, who grinned slyly.

"Made you look. Anyway, just so you know where you stand. I do have a Plan, but it's a secret. Blunder on as best you can. Sorry I can't give you any advice, but that would ruin the surprise. I'll check up on you once in a lifetime or so." As suddenly as it came on, the image went off, and the joke box sprouted an "Out of Order" sign.

Mayor Hardon turned to face the assembled editors. "Obviously, in light of this, there will have to be some drastic changes. First, of course, you're all fired. Second, since I'm the only one in this room with a job, the office of mayor now becomes lifetime and totalitarian. And finally, in honor of the con job that has been worked upon us, I'm re-naming the Humor Foundation as the Con-Foundation."