They just come by the bucketful. They are way too contagious. Poor women have been afflicted by this malady and they are so good at it that they are giving complex and stiff competition to the resident PJ kings. In the beginning, it does bring the laughs and the money, and also, the babes. Then, just the drink buddies survive them.

In the beginning, there was man, then Oscar Wilde. Then, slapstick tramp, Charlie Chaplin. A Dieter Hallevorden? And then, the stand-ups.

The already dwarfed men, eclipsed by their own breed of averages and mediocrity made the art of PJ-ing a new religion. More often than not, I am expected to appreciate and spare a few laughs, leave alone a smile of intolerance.

For some, it is a compulsive disorder/order. For some, an acquired taste, can we call it art? For some, a comic relief to be different.

PJs have ranged from the corny to the horny to the cocky to the total bullshit kinds. Too much of it is nauseating. A lil’ is relieving. None is bland, anyway. PJ-ing requires perfect timing like any punch line. It also needs Himalayan patience to tolerate and survive them. At any random moment of PJ-ing we know when our audience is with or against us. Some jackasses think punning on words is PJ-ing, I beg to differ. It is not. To pun, intended or unintended requires tremendous wit and versatility. PJ-ing is not an effort at all. Remember the best and oft-quoted ones and know the pulse of your audience. You also have to worry about the backfire bit. Trying to be cute by PJ-ing is deadly and fatal.

For some reason, I'm not giving the full form of this dreaded word.


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