A comedian is born

Scholars tell us that comedy is a combination of irony, pathos and timing.

This is very profound.

I know that because it makes absolutely no sense to me.

Premier Mike Harris is also very profound.

And from what I've seen of his policies, he seems to know quite a bit about comedy.

Of course, the true nature of comedy, irrespective of what the scholars say, is only understood by nine-year-old boys.

Nine-year-old boys know that comedy is a combination of burps, breaking wind and falling down in unusual ways.

I was a master of all three when I was nine years old, and they are skills I still carry with me. Although my current social circumstances (my wife) hamper demonstrations of my prowess, in my prime I was considered a comedic master - the envy of nine-year-olds everywhere.

I could not only burp the alphabet - a common jape in the third grade - but I could also burp Oh Canada in both English and French.

As for falling down in unusual ways, I had no equal. I really didn't have to try because, thanks to a natural clumsiness, gravity and I were constant enemies. A quick drop from the monkey bars, some indiscriminate flailing on the way down, and a hearty "Ooof" when I hit the dirt never failed to bring guffaws from my classmates.

But it was in breaking wind that I became most famous. I won't dwell on the subject, in respect of readers with sensitive sensibilities, but suffice it to say I was capable of a Krakatoan clap of such malodorous quality I was known to have cleared entire school assemblies.

My parents were once fined by the Ministry of the Environment.

Which brings us to Victoria Day.

It is an annual tradition with our family to visit some friends who all pitch in some money to buy a big box of fireworks to ignite in honour of good Queen Vic. This year, just before leaving, I made a family feast of Fettuccine Alfredo. After supper, just before our departure, my nine-year-old son told me that the meal made a major impression on his intestinal tract.

"I just let one off Dad, and it smelled like really bad cheese," he said.

"Don't worry about it," I said.

He should have.

During the course of the evening, we all chowed down on chips, and hot dogs, and pop and a host of desserts, before the fireworks began. Then we all settled down to watch brave Rim Stockford risk life and limb igniting the fireworks.

As sparks and bombs filled the air, a gasp rose from the collection of teens, pre-teens and tots collected on blankets on the lawn. It had nothing to do with the fireworks. "Oh, man," shouted one teen. "Whoa, who died?", chortled another. Other young folks fanned the air, held their noses and grimaced.

And pointed at my son.

He grinned.

And rose majestically from his blanket. He quickly ran to the house and disappeared inside.

The conversation changed to the fireworks, and the meal, and just about anything else than what just happened. But my son soon reappeared.

Most people in a similar situation would slink back and try to innocuously reinsert themselves into civilized society.

Others, however, understand comedy.

Just after leaving the house my son announced to the entire gathering "Do not go in there." The entire assembly erupted in laughter. My wife tried to chamaeleon herself into the patterns of her lawnchair.

I beamed with pride.

A comedian was born.