Years ago, Rebecca and I traveled to Lake Tahoe. As luck would have it, comedian Don Rickles was performing that week. We both found him hilarious, so we booked two tickets.
On our arrival, the seating maitre’d took one look at me - short, bald, glasses - and assigned us seats in the front row. Rebecca and I immediately suspected why. I was bound to be a target for Rickles’ insult humor.
I was still a working standup comedian at the time, but I didn’t want to admit that to Don Rickles if he were to pick on me during his show. That would be like upstaging him. But that was assuming too much. He might not pick on me at all.
Rebecca and I were in our early 30s at that time. Rickles’ audience was really old. Older than Rickles himself. And at that time he was about 65.
The show began. The big band onstage played his signature introduction song - The Bull. Listen to it here. Rickles took the stage to a standing O.
His act began, as one would expect, by insulting the crowd. He pointed out that the audience was filled with senior citizens. “The average age in here is death.” Then he talked about his good friend Jim Nabors (Gomer Pyle) “who is on his farm in Hawaii sucking on macadamia nuts.” The crowd winced at what they perceived as a gay slur. “What?” Rickles said. “He’s got a macadamia farm in Hawaii. Don’t boo me!” He picked on a few people in the front rows.
But he didn’t say anything to me...yet. He spotted me, though. From the moment he took the stage, he locked eyes on me.
About halfway into his act, he asked for volunteers from the audience to help him perform a short play. This was a recurring bit in Rickles’ set that he had done many times. He selected one middle-aged man. And then he picked me.
Having performed onstage many times before, the large audience didn’t intimidate me. In fact, Don Rickles seemed more nervous than me. The three things I recall most: his hand trembling when I shook it, his perspiration, and the smell of his cologne.
First, he spoke to the other gentleman. I can’t recall his name. Let’s call him Joe. While Rickles interacted with Joe, I peered into the audience to see my wife laughing.
Then Rickles turned to me. “What’s your name, sir?” Formal, respectful.
“Spencer,” I said.
“And what do you do, Spencer?”
I couldn’t tell him I was a standup comic. So I blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “I’m a medical student.”
“What’s your specialty?”
He stumped me with that. “I, uh… I haven’t decided yet.”
He slapped me. Not hard. But Don Rickles slapped me on the left cheek. “Make up your mind, Spencer!”
The crowd howled. I laughed, too. A bit more banter and then we began his routine.
He told us, and the audience, that we were going to portray Japanese prisoners of war during World War II. He had us kneel on the stage and hold drum sticks as if they were seppuku swords.
(This comedy bit was kinda racist even by 20th Century standards, so if you’re sensitive, please stop reading now.)
“Okay,” Rickles said into the microphone, “we’re three POWs. We’ve been captured by American troops and we’re about to take our own lives. Spencer, here are your lines. ‘I am a disgrace. I have dishonored my country and can no longer stand to live. I will take this blade and end my life and my family will no longer have to live with the shame of my cowardice. This is the only honorable thing to do and I will do this to save face.’ And Joe, your line is, ‘Right.’ Got it?”
The audience laughed. Then Rickles took the microphone away from his face, turned to me, and said, “Just play along. Okay?”
I nodded.
Then, into the mic, Rickles let loose a stream of Japanese gibberish: “Hai ju now ko ru bah kah ro sha na vee so rom yo ka sha ryu jo mah.”
Then he stuck the microphone in my face. Instead of attempting the lines he spewed out earlier, I copied his Japanese gibberish. “Mo rah kyu ree hai mah shee no yun go wo pyu son gow.”
The crowd erupted in riotous laughter. Rickles leapt to his feet and began marching across the stage with his hands in the air in bewilderment. He acted like he couldn’t understand what just happened. Into the mic, he said, “What did he say? What did he say?”
The audience howled. Even the members of the band onstage behind me doubled over. I could hear them laughing out loud.
Rickles went to his bandleader’s sheet music on a music stand, rifled through it, and said, “Where the hell was that in the script?”
The laughter went on for a full minute. Being a seasoned showman, Rickles seemed to know that the bit wasn’t going to get any funnier than that - or maybe he didn’t know how to get back on track after I went off-script - so he ended the scene right away. He thanked Joe and me, had the audience give us a round of applause, and then had the maitre-d send a bottle of champagne to our table.
His act continued. He told hilarious stories, sang a surprisingly schmaltzy tune, and then he received a standing ovation. A great show.
Years later, my friend Bob Goldthwait performed on a television show with Don Rickles. Bob related my story and told Rickles that I was a standup comedian. Rickles said he remembered that show, and he sensed right away that I was a comic.
Whether or not he liked or disliked what I did that night I’ll never know. But I was happy to hear that he remembered me. And I will never forget it.
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