Notes & Queries response: What’s the shortest joke? What’s the smallest ratio of words to laughter possible?

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This is my response to a question that appeared on the Notes & Queries page of The Guardian website on 23th October, 2022.

I am replying here as The Guardian is apparently no longer happy to host my comments on their site.

This blog is obviously not affiliated with The Guardian. Its reference to a question that appeared in Notes & Queries is presented here under the terms of fair use.

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What’s the shortest joke? What’s the smallest ratio of words to laughter possible?

When lining up candidates for the shortest joke, one might well conclude that the answer lies within the realm of slapstick. In the words of Robin Dracup: “There are few things in life that are funnier than a man wearing a top hat walking face-first into a lamp post, evoking a dull chime that broadcasts the shame of his self-inflicted fall from the arms of victory.”

The variations upon this common theme are endless: In the aftermath of a prokaryotes infestation that I picked up while in Peru, and that left my skin imbued with a pale lilac glow, I became acquainted with a microbiologist named, Molly Peacock, who studies unicellular organisms. During the bespoke treatment plan that she had developed on my behalf, I learned that she is greatly amused by a fast-metabolising species of amoeba that lives for less than a minute, prior to reproducing by exploding.

“They've been doing it that way for millions of years and it's completely ridiculous,” she said. “As far as anyone has been able to tell there has no evolution. As a species they've cornered themselves into repeating the same pratfall over and over. I keep a small culture on top of the towels in my airing cupboard. Whenever I am feeling a bit like life is passing me by, and I am not getting anywhere, I slide the Petri dish under the microscope and it always makes me smile.”

“I wonder whether there has ever been an amoeba that has told itself: 'I am not going to make the same mistake my parent did,'” I pondered.

“Just imagine not surviving long enough to hear the entirety of 'My Way' being played at the funeral of one of your mates who just exploded,” said Peacock.

It is a sobering thought that, aeons before formulaic sitcoms were wringing rictus amusement from their principle characters making the same cardinal errors week upon week, single-celled life had already perfected this shtick as a piece of performance art.

That being said, they would hardly be the only ones:

A few years ago, while walking the Aberdeenshire coast in the company of Patrick Hampshire, we observed female bampits rising and falling unsteadily on the buffeting crosswinds above the grassy dunes. The males of the species would be equally capable of taking to the air if they did not pull out their flight feathers and use them as improvised lances in ungainly jousts, where the aim appears to be to brush these disembodied plumes against the faces of their opponents. The winner of these undignified slap fights somehow gets their choice of mate. It is worth noting that it is the male bampit who sits on the eggs.

Twenty miles to the south, the coast gets rocky as it rises from the shoreline. It is here that you will find a notorious landmark named Lowren's Cleft – dubbed by the renowned explorer, Robert Suckling, as one of the seven natural wonders of the world. This fissure in the sea-cliff frequently emits a sound that is remarkably similar to flatulence. Occasionally it is so loud that, with a favourable wind (if you will pardon the expression), it can be heard as far as twenty miles out to sea. Those closer to the source will be afforded the experience of the unsavoury accompanying odour – a product of the decomposing seaweed that is the source of these gaseous expulsions.

I am highly suspicious of anyone who has stood within earshot of Lowren's Cleft, as it continuously breaks wind, and claims to have maintained a straight face. There is an apocryphal story of battle that was once fought in the area, that had to be called off after the rival armies were unable to contain their amusement.

A tale with a firmer footing in history recalls the tragedy of a soldier named William Persay who wished to marry Lady Carmichael, but was prevented from soliciting her betrothal on account of his lowly rank and overall poor prospects. Finally, after much pleading from his daughter, her father agreed to sanction the union on the condition that the proposal of marriage be given at Lowren's Cleft, and that Persay maintain his composure throughout. The poor soldier was scarcely down on one knee before he was overtaken by mirth. Lady Carmichael was married to a suitor more in keeping with her station. William Persay was so mortified by his failure to exert proper self-control that he romantically exiled himself to a life of bachelorhood. He was killed at the age of 36, during the siege of Calcutta.

If we deviate from pure slapstick and bring words into the equation, then, according to the philosopher, Mikel Bolloré, the funniest joke is whatever follows the word 'I' in a sentence. Those who find Bolloré's nihilistic Gaelic humour a tad too arch and existential for their palate, may wish to consider, as an alternative, the murder of the actor Donald Beedle; on the face of it, not an obvious choice, though the event was regarded as remarkably funny at the time:

On the evening of the 4th of April, 1937, Beedle took to the stage of the Barling Bridge Theatre, caked in yellow panstick, trailing the dangling twin threads of a braided moustache, and dressed in the long silken robes of an oriental emperor (these were far less culturally sensitive times). Raising an index finger, that had been artificially lengthened through the addition of a long nail, he had barely spoken his first word when a loose floorboard pivoted underfoot on a hidden axis, rising up at speed and striking the actor squarely in the forehead, causing him to stiffen like a board and topple backwards, raising gales of laughter from the audience. When Beedle failed to rise, murmurs of concern began to ripple through the rows of seats. However, in that moment, the loose board, which up until this moment had remained upright, began to fall backwards, its bloodied tip sinking below the level of the stage as the opposite end rose, elevating one of the actor's legs, causing his robe to slip down and exposing his stocking suspenders. The comedic timing was apparently so perfect that the audience was on their feet wiping away tears of laughter, oblivious to the tragedy that had unfolded before their eyes.

It was discovered later that this supposed accident had been arranged by a stagehand named Kirkorov who was in dispute with Beedle over a woman.

Kirkorov was a highly-skilled set builder who had worked alongside the hapless comedy duo, Jacob and Ladd, on their silent movies. His talents are on most obvious display in their film 'The Election' in which the pair are charged with erecting a podium on behalf of a mayoral candidate, but fail to secure the boards properly, resulting in the loose planks rising up and whacking them on various body parts in a slapstick ballet that is almost mechanical in its execution.

Following an unlikely turn of events which sees a passing goat being elected as mayor, the bumbling duo take refuge on their podium, where their poor handyman-ship works inadvertently in their favour, the rising boards fortuitously deflecting the volleys of missiles that are being hurled at them by the angry crowd.

Kirkorov fled to Bulgaria before he could be tried for the murder of Beedle, taking with him the contested object of his affections – an actress named Gladys Thacker.

In terms of ratio of words to laughter, Donald Beedle's swansong is a strong contender for the shortest joke, though some might question whether it is in good taste to include it in such a list.

I hope this of help.

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