…and in conclusion, let me say if I knew then what I know now, I wouldn’t know what I know now. I might have taken a different path. I might not be here now. I might be over there where you are. And you might be dead or waiting in the car in the parking lot. Or both. What to make of it all? Hey, “It is what it is.”
Questions?
(Disheveled man in 3rd row) You bet. Saying “It is what it is” leaves unanswered the basic question raised by Noodleman in “The Writings and Grocery Lists of Noodleman.” “What if it isn’t what it is?” By the way, those italics are mine.
(Red faced man in 15th row) Hold the phone, Jerome. If it really is what it is, okay, I get it. Fine. But way before Needleman ever said it, Prince Rastraprovitchy asked in his third Monad of the Igalorium “If it isn’t, then how come I say po-tah-toe but you say po-tay-toe?”
(Disheveled Man Rejoinder, 3rd row) Look, I said Noodleman, not Needleman. I’ve never heard of Needleman. Needlemeyer, yes. But not Needleman. And by the way, my name is not Jerome.
(Janitor, sweeping up) You all have violated the inviolable precept laid down by the viola player Toadman Ricky in his overture “Why The Itness of Cosmology is not the Isthmus of Panama.”
(Sheveled rejoinderist, 3rd row) Look, Mr. Janitor man, maybe you’re not aware but the so-called boy genius, Toadman “Picky” Ricky, traded in his viola for a 5-string banjo.
(Cardi B look-alike, shouted from the back.) Noodleman, Needleman, Who cares? When you ask “What if it isn’t what it is?” you have sadly misjudged a key isn’t in the itness of it. To wit: isn’t denies the very existence of a completely obvious it. I mean there it lay, or it lays, or it…
(Hollered from the balcony) Layla! Give us Layla!
(Inebriate from last row). Lola! L-O-L-A, Lola.
(Insistent balconyist) It’s Layla, you idiot.
(Undersheveled man in 3rd row). Wait a second. Those look like my italics.
(Purple faced man in 15th row, being carried out on stretcher.) Hold the phone, Jerome. I’m just saying it cannot be denied because there it is. As the orator Marcus Tullius Cicero put it “Ipso facto, Jacko.”
(Resheveled man in 3rd row) My name is Jacko and I am quite offended by your purple face. Is he still breathing? Can we please substitute Whacko for Jacko?
(Bitter cry of Miley Cyrus impersonator [I said Billy Ray Cyrus.]) Siddown you fascist whacko.
(Dude dressed as Marie Antoinette, eating cake.) I am not a fascist. I’m a Ronald Reagan Bonzonist, you D-word head
(Oversheveled man, 3rd row) Okay, go ahead, call me Jerome. I actually like it better than Wendell.
(Second Janitor. Looks a lot like first Janitor. Possibly the same guy?) I’d just like to say “It is what it is” is a meaningless statement that insults all of us. On the other hand…
(Captain Hook, Perth Amboy) What if I only have one hand?
Q: (First or second Janitor) As I was saying, on the same hand but with a different finger, the saying “it is what it is” perfectly captures the painful conundrum that those of us afflicted with “existentialist” angst…
Q.(First or second Janitor.) Wait. You have existential angst?
Q. (First or Second Janitor.) To the max.
Q. (First or Second Janitor.) What do you take for it?
Q. (First or Second Janitor.) A lot of crap
Q. (Third Janitor.) The police are here. They found a body in a car in the parking lot. Somebody may have waited too long.
Q. (Vladimir Putin look-alike [without shirt] ) If that isn’t what it isn’t, I don’t know what isn’t.
©Patrick A. McGuire and A Hint of Light 2013-2020, all rights reserved.
For years I told jokes on street corners for tips, dreaming of one day owning a granite counter top. No luck, so I entered a monastery. I now do stand-up at daily prayer services. The monks' vow of silence means they can't laugh. I can't even laugh, although sometimes I sob quietly in the can. This blog is a cry for help. Send money or granite. I accept Pay Pal.
a hint of light 