Laughter in Bed: A Potent Prescription of Medical Mirth, Puzzles, Quizzes, Games, Gags and Guffaws!

By Eddie Davis

Here is the perfect package, a riotous, rollicking remedy guaranteed to banish sick-a-bed blues and dispel dull care.

Let Eddie Davis, that Master of Merriment and author of the already famous Laugh Yourself Well, escort you on a personally conducted laugh-tour through the hilarious halls of the hospital, the comicalities of the clinic and to the fun you can find with Freud. Waiting for you is a laugh in each line and an explosive chuckle in each cartoon.

Eddie's remedy is simple and easy to take. It's endorsed by leading doctors and nurses everywhere. It's simply that laughter, yocks, guffaws and chuckles are often better than the biggest booster shots. The best medication is merriment, says Eddie, and you'll find a world of health and hilarity in these fun-packed chapters.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Frederick Fell Publishers, Inc.
• Release date: Nov 15, 2018
• ISBN: 9780883917664

Book preview

Answers

CHAPTER I

Keep Your Own Charts

PATIENT’S OWN CHART

The Illness: . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The Hospital: . . . . . . . . . . . . .

When Arrived: . . . . . . . . . . . . .

My Doctor: . . . . . . . . . . . . .

My Nurse: . . . . . . . . . . . . .

My Medicine: . . . . . . . . . . . . .

DAY BY DAY—A RECORD OF MY STAY

1st Day . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8th Day . . . . . . . . . . . . .

2nd Day . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9th Day . . . . . . . . . . . . .

3rd Day . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10th Day . . . . . . . . . . . . .

4th Day . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11th Day . . . . . . . . . . . . .

5th Day . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12th Day . . . . . . . . . . . . .

6th Day . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13th Day . . . . . . . . . . . . .

7th Day . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14th Day . . . . . . . . . . . . .

(If you are still in the hospital after 2 weeks, you must have a good-looking nurse!)

CHAPTER II

Me and My Big Fat Asthma

I’ve got asthma!

In my last book, Laugh Yourself Well, I spent two hundred twenty-four pages telling everybody about it. Evidently people seemed to enjoy my ailment, because the book went through so many printings that now I can not only afford to have asthma but hay fever with it.

Whenever I get an attack my wife gets panicky, and immediately she sends for her family. That’s what happened the last time. The first one who walked in was my mother-in-law. She didn’t have far to travel: she came in from the living room.

Eddie’s got asthma again, cried my wife.

So what? Mama poo-poohed. All he’s got to do is take a shot of adrenalin in oil, follow it up with an intravenous of five per cent dextrose in saline solution spiked with twenty c.c.s of amynophyllin, then take the Biloxi treatment of Fowler’s Solution, digitalis, phenobarbital and potassium iodide, followed by calcium lactate and cascara at six-hour intervals.

Mama, I wheezed, where did you learn so much about asthma?

What’s to learn? shrugged Mama. That’s the way they did it on ‘Medic’!

Quite a gal, my mother-in-law! All day long she goes around moaning that she’s not long for this world. In the meantime she’s already outlived four doctors.

The next one to enter is Papa-in-law. Papa has a standing rule—he never works any week that has a Tuesday in it. For years we’ve been begging him to learn a trade so we can know what kind of a job he’s out of.

Who needs all that medicine? sneered Papa. Take my advice, go to Dr. Pinkeye. Now there’s a specialist!

Is he any good? I managed to gasp.

Any good? Why, he treated my uncle, let him rest in peace!

Next my brother-in-law Hymie the Tout arrived to take a crack at me. Pull up a chair and sit down, I said.

I just came from the race track, said Hymie out of the corner of his mouth.

In that case pull up a mutuel window and sit down.

Hymie looked me over carefully. You don’t look good, Davis, he shook his head sadly. You’re so pale you look like a bottle of milk with eyebrows.

I’ve got asthma, I panted.

Hymie didn’t agree. You ain’t got asthma, you got ulcers.

Don’t be silly, Hymie, I gasped. Ulcers are in the stomach. My trouble is in my chest.

Davis, said Hymie, you ain’t got a chest.

Hymie, leave me alone, I said, reaching for my hat and coat. I’m going to my doctor. If I hurry I can still catch him in. His hours are ten-to-two.

Go to my doctor, I can get you better odds, touted Hymie.

The trouble is with your breathing, but don’t worry, I’ll soon put a stop to that!

Your doctor’s in Brooklyn; mine’s here in Manhattan, I said as I opened the door.

Hymie shrugged. Take my advice and go to Brooklyn. It’s nearer the cemetery.

I’m dying and he’s making jokes! Still, he must have had a point, because as I walked to the comer to grab a cab an undertaker rushed out of his establishment and gave me a free estimate!

Look, I’m in no mood to play, I growled. Besides, I’m not dead yet.

That’s all right, I’ll wait. What’s a few minutes between friends?

You’re not funny! I screamed. I can’t appreciate you before I’ve had my breakfast.

Don’t worry, I’ll feed you, soothed the cream of the cremators. Just wait till you try my famous box lunch.

As I escaped down the street he called after me, You don’t have to pay cash. Why not try our lay-away plan?

The cabbie dropped me in front of my doctor’s office five minutes later. The doctor was waiting for me as I walked in.

Ah, he applauded, I see you made it, Davis. You’re looking like a million dollars.

Why, I asked, have you ever seen a million dollars?

No, and you look like something I’ve never seen before. Come on into my office, said the sawbones.

As we sat down in his inner sanctum the doctor looked up my chart. Davis, he informed me, your payments are in arrears.

Really? I countered. How did they get back there?

The medico rose to his feet. Excuse me while I shut the window, Eddie. It sounds like they’re tearing up the street outside.

Nobody’s tearing up anything, Doc, I gurgled. That’s me, wheezing. Can’t you help me get rid of this asthma?

Doc nodded. Drop your pants, Davis. I’ll prepare a hypo.

As I stood stooped over, sunny side up, the doctor’s nurse entered, took one look and yelled, Hey, how about that! Davis is back!

Wonderful nurse; she never forgets a face.

The doctor returned and wasted no time. Unerringly he drove the needle home. Ouch! I yelled.

Now sit down, Davis, and I’ll give you a thorough examination, said the healer.

Doc, I reminded him, don’t you think you’d better take the needle out first?

Darn it! he exclaimed, I lose more needles that way! He settled down and put the cold stethoscope to my spavined chest. You know, he said after a while, your heart skips a beat every once in a while. But I wouldn’t worry about that.

If your heart skipped a beat I wouldn’t worry either, Doc.

Then the medico led me over to a weird-looking contraption. Stand behind the screen, he ordered.

What’s the matter, Doc, can’t you afford a television set like everybody else? I asked. The doctor began to fiddle with the dials. How does Pinky Lee come over on this set? I inquired.

You don’t understand, Davis. This is a fluoroscope, the doc said. With this machine I can see inside you.

How do I look on the inside? I asked.

Better than you look on the outside, he answered. He kept looking at the screen. Hmm, he hummed, there must be something wrong, I can’t find your liver.

Push the onions aside and you’ll find it, I advised him.

He led me from behind the machine over to a chair. Sit down, he said, I’m going to test your reflexes. With that he began to pound my knees with a rubber hammer.

What are you doing? I shrieked. It feels like you’re banging down to the janitor for more heat!

Davis, do you know what I’ve discovered? asked the M.D. with interest. You’ve got water on the knee.

I moaned, What did you expect, seltzer?

The doctor reached for a long needle. What are you going to do now? I shrieked in alarm.

Relax, Davis, he calmed me, I’m just going to type your blood.

Sounds silly to me, I winced as he jabbed, you’re going to have an awful messy typewriter.

Ten minutes later the sawbones returned with the vial. There’s nothing wrong with your blood, Davis.

Good, I grunted. Give it back to me, I’ve got to go to work. I’ve got to finish my new musical.

The doctor brightened. That’s right! I forgot, you’re a comedy writer. Have I got a surprise for you! He opened the door to the anteroom. Melvin, he called out. Melvin, come in here.

The doctor turned back to me. So you’re a comedy writer, eh? Wait till you meet my son Melvin, you’ll find out what comedy is!

Before I could protest in walked Melvin. I had to admit the doctor was right. One look at Melvin and I almost had a laughing relapse! His head looked like it got caught in the Bronx Express and was dragged all the way to Brooklyn!

This is my only son, Doc introduced him proudly.

I don’t blame you, Doc, I agreed. One like him would slow up any family.

Melvin, said his papa, tell Mr. Davis the funny story you told at Uncle Oscars party. Doc motioned to me. Wait till you hear this, he’s a scream.

Melvin put a lampshade on his head and grinned idiotically. Good evening, ladies and germs, he Berled. A funny thing happened to me this morning. I opened the closet and heard a little moth crying. When I told this to my mother she said, ‘Don’t be silly. Who ever heard of a moth crying?’ And I said, ‘Haven’t you ever heard of a moth bawl?’

Melvin let out a shriek of laughter and pounded me on the back. Doesn’t that fracture you? he hollered.

A little bit lower and you would have, I told the monster.

I told you, said his father, he’s another Milton Berle.

Must there be another Milton Berle? I groaned.

You ain’t heard nothing yet, said the medic. Melvin, tell him the story you told at Aunt Fanny’s party.

Doc, I said, you ought to keep this kid away from parties!

Put some feeling into it, Melvin, advised papa. If you’re good Davis will let you collaborate with him.

Melvin made this a short one-liner. Hear about the plumber’s daughter who became a Duchess? She married a Dutchman.

I began to wheeze again. Melvin was busy screaming at his own wit and smashed me on the back again. Pretty funny, eh, man?

Let me out of here, Doc, I begged. I think I’m allergic to Melvin’s jokes.

You asked me to bring you something to read, so I brought you these …

Professional jealousy! stormed Melvin.

Just for that you can pay your bill right now, snapped the doc. I’m tired of waiting for my money. This is the last time I’ll ask you!

Glad to hear it, Doc, I countered. I was getting tired of hearing you ask.

Pay up, growled the medic. You owe me seventy-five dollars.

I took out my checkbook and made out the check for one hundred dollars. Here, Doc, I said. I’m paying up. Just give me my twenty-five dollars change so I’ll have enough for my taxis and stuff.

Doc gave me my change and then passed the check over to Melvin. Here, he told his sonny boy, Davis is paying for your jokes anyway. I was happy as I walked out of the office, because I had made three people feel good. The doctor felt good because I’d settled my bill. Melvin felt good because he got some of Davis’ money. And I felt good because I’d made twenty-five dollars profit—that one hundred dollar check was going to bounce!

By the time I hit the street I was laughing out loud. You should always do the same, folks. Laughter is a great medicine, don’t bottle it!

CHAPTER III

Comedians Keep Their Doctors in Stitches

Every comic likes to sport a coat of tan on his body, but underneath they’re still pale. In fact, some of them are such poor specimens they could play a guest shot on Medic. The saying in the trade is, Show me a comic without ulcers and I’ll show you a comic who’s not a comic.

It isn’t dissipation and it isn’t lack of care; it’s overwork. When a comedian isn’t playing three shows a night in some club, when he isn’t playing six shows a day in some vaudeville house, when he isn’t rehearsing seven days a week for his TV show, when he isn’t sweating before those hot kleig lights at a movie studio, when he isn’t making personal appearances, then he’s playing a benefit for free, or entertaining at a hospital or at Army camps. The average comic is a nervous wreck because he’s expected to be funny every waking moment and must keep his mind in trigger condition. It gets so that after a while the first thing a comedian does in the morning is look in the obituary column to see if his name is in it.

A comic is human (although there are those who will lay you 8-to-5 you can’t prove it) and as such he has human peculiarities, even as you and I. For instance, Jackie Gleason’s weakness is good food. But food with Jackie is like sugar in unstirred coffee—it settles to the bottom. Therefore Gleason must go on periodic diets to shed some of the excess. However, Gleason has a weekly program to do. So he hires a hospital suite and holds script conferences, rehearsals, booking talks, while the medics work him over. Imagine trying to lose two dozen pounds while your gagwriter destroys a pastrami club sandwich—with potato salad yet!

On the other hand, CBS-TV star Johnny Carson, whose weight is a snappy one hundred thirty-five pounds is probably the skinniest of comics. Johnny was thoroughly examined by a battery of physicians to see if he could hold up under the strain of a weekly TV broadcast. They were amazed at the sight of his frame. In fact, somebody spread a rumor that when Carson got on the table to be X-rayed, the only thing that showed up on the plate was the table.

Are you sure there’s nothing wrong with your system? asked one doctor skeptically.

Not that I know of, replied Johnny. Last week I had four winners.

Because each understands the others problems there is a wonderful rapport between doctor and comic. For instance, Dr. Larry Morganbesser will tell Milton Berle about the elderly comic who is romancing a young TV starlet. She’s going on nineteen and he’s going on benzedrine.

Milty will come back with the somewhat longer story about the doctor who was called out of a warm bed on a wintry night by a patient who yelled that he was dying. Wearily the doctor made the trip to the patient’s bedside. A half hour later he called all the patient’s relatives, the lawyer, friends, etc., to the patient’s house. Then he told the lawyer to start reading the will.

So he’s really dying this time, eh, Doc? asked the lawyer.

He’s not sick at all! snapped the doctor. But I’m not the only guy he’s going to make a fool of on a night like this!

This back-and-forth kidding also exists between Groucho Marx and his physician, Dr. Steven Elek. Dr. Elek claims that Groucho is very grateful to chemistry. After all, it was chemistry that gave the world blondes.

Groucho in turn relates the tale of the time Dr. Elek went to see