Teach Me Humor

It might be surprising to see me write in the editorial section of Saturday Chronicles instead of the humor one.I am Jefford Tinslay. Many of you might know me as the creator of the comic series 'Bulldozer'.

Today is the 25th anniversary of my comic series and the death anniversary of a man close to my heart—who was also the reason for many nightmares at one point in my life. Many of you have often asked me about the inspiration behind the comic series. To be honest, it was not the result of a fine, intriguing mind but rather an unusual mishap.

It might be surprising to see me write in the editorial section of Saturday Chronicles instead of the humor one. I am Jefford Tinslay. Many of you might know me as the creator of the comic series “Bulldozer.”

Today is the 25th anniversary of my comic series and the death anniversary of a man close to my heart—who was also the reason for many nightmares at one point in my life. Many of you have often asked me about the inspiration behind the comic series. To be honest, it was not the result of a fine, intriguing mind, but rather an unusual mishap.

Let’s get to the point directly.

I was twenty-five and a struggling comedian. Even after trying several multimedia channels, nothing turned in my favor.

Until one fine morning, I got a call from an automobile company. A meeting was set between me and the CEO of the company, who happened to be a billionaire at that time.

I wore my usual tapered and cuffed jeans with a denim jacket and a flannel shirt and headed for the meeting. Finally, I reached the office and waited eagerly, and he arrived just on time. He was a short man, almost bald, and a little plump. He seemed narcissistic and self-obsessed, yet he put his demands forward in a surprisingly uncomplicated way.

He asked me to teach him humor.

Not that he was grumpy or sorrowful, but he said he wanted to participate in one of the famous comedy shows and was counting on me for that. I would be receiving handsome pay in return.

Billionaires and their whims and fancies!

At the peak of my struggling days, I readily agreed to the proposal and entered into a contract. Trust me, empty pockets liberate you to accept challenges. Moreover, I had two options: jumping off the cliff or jumping off the cliff—so I chose the first one.

This may sound strange—how could one ever teach humor to someone? But this was the only thing I did better than others. We both worked extremely hard, rehearsed for days and nights. For hours, we would be in another world, tapping into things beyond ego and status.

But in vain.

Finally, the date of the comedy show approached, and he was still utterly bad. I collapsed under the pressure, and we agreed that I would prepare the scripts for him, and he would perform on the show. No one would know about it.

The show continued for a while and gained a lot of popularity. I always said what I wanted to say, not what people wanted to hear—but now everyone listened, as if it were coming from a billionaire’s mouth.

And then one day, my billionaire man, out of excitement, revealed the truth about the scripts in an interview.

I felt as if my skin had been ripped off, as the world seemed to focus only on that news.

The show was put off, and I was not contacted further.

Many say you become a better comedian when you can make fun of yourself—and for me, it was true. The news slowly faded after several sleepless nights, trauma, relentless questions from the media, and legal complications. By a very natural human process, people eventually forgot the incident.

I was seeking then, striving—but in the process, I was also set free.

But by then, I had no money left.

People say when all doors close, God opens a new one. I took it so seriously that I persuaded myself to take up a job as a salesman. Though I left after a few days, the good thing was—it paid, unlike mine.

A year passed.

Then again, on a not-so-fine morning, I got a call from the billionaire’s office and was asked to meet him. To many, it might seem like walking into a predator’s mouth at will—but I still agreed.

I met him, and he seemed like a different man this time—calm and composed. He dolefully informed me that he was suffering from a deadly disease and wished he could be a comedian like me. He also apologized deeply for his deeds and the misfortune that followed.

After hearing this, I was expecting him to hand over a huge part of his prized possessions.

However, he handed me a small piece of paper instead.

It had the editor’s contact details of Saturday Chronicles.

He asked me to contact them for a job.

Three months later, he passed away.

On that very day, “Bulldozer” was published.

A story about a man—short, almost bald, a little plump.

Only this time, the voice was truly mine.