The Guru of Giggling - An attempt at catering to a wider audience

Like the late Rodney Dangerfield, I often worry that I get no respect. Everyone tells me that I'm the only thing worth reading in Card Player, but I'm too cynical to believe it. I fret that all the other columnists provide valuable advice on how to win at poker, while all I can offer are a few measly chuckles, quickly forgotten and of no lasting value, which are about as much use as learning what Roy West had for dinner last night.



But I began to re-evaluate my place in society when I watched a TV program about a Bombay doctor by the name of Madan Kataria, who is known as the "Guru of Laughter," or the "Guru of Giggling." Dr. Kataria offers seminars on the value of laughter to promote the physical and psychological benefits to health and happiness.



OK, there's nothing new there. Reader's Digest has a joke section called "Laughter, the Best Medicine." The late author Norman Cousins once wrote a book describing how he cured himself of a supposedly incurable ailment by watching funny movies nonstop. And the Robin Williams film, Patch Adams, tells the true story of a doctor who puts on a red rubber nose to make his patients laugh.



But Dr. Kataria goes one step further. Instead of making his students cackle by showing funny movies, telling jokes, or dropping his pants, he teaches them how to laugh by just … well … by just laughing. You know, go "ha ha," hee hee," "ho ho," and soon it becomes contagious. The benefits, he insists, are identical whether the mirth is genuine or forced. "Fake it until you make it" is his slogan, an approach that he says helps people fool their bodies into believing the laughter is a real indicator of happiness. He's established hundreds of laughter clubs around the world to help people relieve stress and strengthen the immune system, and to make them look and feel younger.



As the show continued, I watched in bewilderment as a roomful of people laughed their arses off over nothing. Here, I spend countless hours writing, rewriting, editing, shaping, and agonizing over every word of a column in hope of squeezing a snicker or two out of my readers, while these folks had tears running down their cheeks just by telling themselves to do so.



Then I thought, wait a minute. If people can get so much enjoyment and health benefit from laughing over nothing, think about how much joy and healing I'm spreading in my columns. Maybe I should get the Albert Schweitzer Humanitarian award. And just imagine how much more good these giggle-heads could get from listening to my jokes instead of having to self-start themselves.



I've often dreamed of taking my show on the road to a wider audience. Poker players are OK, but not overly intellectual. Most of them, after all, move their lips and scratch their heads when they read my column. But I never knew where to try out a live audience act. I don't think I'm ready for Jay Leno, and I'm too insecure to audition my material in front of a tough comedy club crowd. However, an audience that becomes hysterical over nothing would be a perfect, confidence-building start.



I contacted Dr. Kataria and asked if I could perform at one of his laughter clubs. He was dubious, but grudgingly agreed.



At the appointed hour, I showed up at one of his clubs. I walked in to find a roomful of men and women, goaded on by an instructor, rolling around on the floor, laughing themselves silly. Then, as I moved to the front of the room, row by row the giggling stopped as the students got a look at me.



"Just who the hell are you?" the instructor snarled.



"Didn't Dr. Kataria inform you? I'm here to make your students really laugh by reading from my book of poker humor."



"There's nothing funny about poker, and we're doing just fine without your help," he said, glancing at the exit.



"Oh, give me a break, sourpuss," I said, pushing him aside. "Hi," I greeted my puzzled audience. "I'm Max Shapiro, America's foremost poker humorist, and I'm here to make you laugh for real by reading from my acclaimed book." I prompted them by going "Ha, ha, ha" and sticking out my tongue, but nobody reacted.



Undeterred, I opened the book and turned to the first story, in which I wrote about trying to con a lost tribe of gambling-addicted Native Americans, the Bust-Out Indians, into building a casino on their territory. As I read, nobody even smiled. Then, I came to the hilarious line where I laid out the split, 90 percent for me, 10 for them, and one of the tribesmen offered to fit me with an Arrow shirt.



Silence.



"Arrow," I explained. "A double meaning. Arrow shirts and bows and arrows. Very funny."



Getting no reaction, I turned to another story. This one described how I tried to improve my results at poker by buying a good-luck piece at a "Lucky Charms" store. The proprietor suggested a gold amulet. When I asked if anyone else had ever worn it, he said, "Sure, Amelia Earhart."



Nobody laughed. "Amelia Earhart!" I shouted. "The famous aviatrix. Her plane disappeared on a world flight attempt in 1937!"



A woman in the audience raised her hand. "I don't understand," she said. "The charm didn't bring Miss Earhart any luck."



I plowed on, offering up some of my most classic lines. I told about Aberdeen Angus McTavish, the tightest player in the world, who played only suited aces.



"An ace can be suited only with a different card," someone corrected me.



Relentlessly, I kept reading, shouting out my punch lines, but to no avail. Finally, I came to the last story, which was about my final resting place. It concluded with the epigram I had chosen for my tombstone: "Max is Drawing Dead Again." I closed the book triumphantly and looked up, a big expectant grin on my face.



I was greeted by blank stares, snoring, and somebody mumbling, "Is it over yet?"



I may have gone a little berserk. "Humorless dunces!" I screamed as I tore the book into shreds, flung the pages at my audience, and stormed out.



Dr. Kataria wasn't very amused when he found out what happened. He sent me a letter in which he complained that half the audience was now on antidepressant medication. "From what I have been told, your book is more suitable to be read at wakes than at laugh sessions," he wrote.



Ah, well. I guess I'm stuck with poker players – and vice versa.