Washington, DC
I define a shaggy dog story thus: A seemingly (usually) plausible story of varying length (the longer the better). As the story progresses, the reader should become more and more intrigued, even if they know it's a shaggy dog story. The last line is always an absolutely hideous pun.
Why are these stories called 'shaggy dog stories?' I don't think anyone knows really, but here's one example of the 'original' shaggy dog story:
"An advertisement is placed in The Times to announce a competition to find the shaggiest dog in the world. After a vast amount of effort and investigation (described in detail, after the nature of this type of story), the winning dog was presented to the aristocratic instigator of the competition, who said: “I don’t think he’s so shaggy”."
But over time shaggy dog stories have evolved. A 'true' shaggy dog story, in my opinion, now requires that the last line be an outrageous pun, not just an abrupt, unexpected, contrary ending, no matter how funny.
I don't know whether anyone else in the world loves shaggy dog stories as much as I do, but I'm creating a weblog that will post a new shaggy dog story periodically for distribution hopefully to an ever-increasing list of enthusiasts on the assumption that among the billions of people on earth, there are a few who share a love of shaggy dog stories.
Here's a brief example: But a caveat... a 'brief' shaggy dog story is oxymoronic, however, this example demonstrates quickly the humor in a shaggy dog story, so maybe readers, only browsing, may be intrigued enough to read the 'real' shaggy dog story that follows it.
here's how a form of shaggy dog story is described in 'A Classification of Shaggy Dog Stories'
All the top chess players show up at a hotel for an important international tournament. They spend the first hour hanging around the lobby telling each other of their recent victories. Their crows get progressively louder and louder as each one tries to outdo the others. The hotel manager gets tired of this, so he throws them out of the lobby and tells them to go to their rooms. "If there's one thing I can't stand," he says,
"it's chess nuts boasting by an open foyer."
Here's a 'real' shaggy dog story:
One day a frequent patron of Mulligans Bar across the 59th street bridge in Queens comes in and Ryan, the bartender greets him: "Good day to you, Roy! How are you? What'll you have to drink?"
"I used to like a lager, but I can't bear the idea anymore," Roy says.
"I've got a strange ailment...nothing I do to eliminate it has worked. I've been to my doctor. He sent me for a scan. He can't find anything wrong.
I can't fish, I can't play poker, I can't watch football. Food tastes horrible. I feel terrible. Life is not worth living. I've tried everything. I've been to the priest. I've tried mediation. I've tried Zoloft. I don't know what to do."
Ryan says: " Life is unfair, Roy. Here I've lived all of my life without a pain...without tragedy, without conflict, without care. It's not that I'm virtuous. Heaven knows that. In any system of scorekeeping, I don't 'deserve' a burden-less existence. Why you? Why not me?"
I was looking at a movie on television recently. I just happened on it. You know it? It called: The Gods Must be Crazy." I think that title contains a truth. The gods we worship are crazy.
This is a screwed-up world we live in. Hello out there. Is there anyone in charge?"
Ryan continues: "Listen, I have an idea. It's crazy, but if you've tried everything, maybe this might work. See the guy at the end of the bar. He's a former witch doctor from Madagascar. He drives a cab since he came to America. He tells me that he still practices his magic for his fellow countrymen. He lives in Queens over by the Harlem River. Maybe he can help."
Roy moves to the end of the bar and introduces himself and explains his problem.
The witch doctor replies: "I can't compete with modern American medicine. I stand in awe of the machines and medicines and techniques. I am ashamed by the primitiveness of the practices I engaged in back in my village.
Roy interposes, desperate: " Ryan tells me that you still help your countrymen. You must still retain some skills or they wouldn't keep asking. I'll pay. I can afford whatever you charge."
The witch doctor replies: "How did you acquire the where-with-all to be able to afford whatever I charge?" Do you believe that you have lifted yourself by your bootstraps through determination and hard work?
Roy answers quickly: "No... sure I worked hard, but I was born white, Protestant, male, to a middle-class family. I am the product of my genes. I didn't make a consequential decision unaffected by my heritage or my environment before I was 20 years old. I didn't earn my current status. I managed to obtain it mostly by inheritance and luck. But my luck has now failed me. Maybe you can help me."
The witch doctor looks directly at Roy and nods: " Maybe I can help. The only time I am successful with one of my countrymen, since arriving on the boat in New York harbor, is when my subject acknowledges the truth as you stated it. He accepts that he's no different than the numbers player who hits the jackpot... he receives a windfall at birth or not ... it's the fickleness of chance."
Roy says: "I agree."
"Then here's what I want you to do:" says the witch doctor as he removes from his shoulder bag a length of leather strapping.
"I want you to take this leather thong...cut it into short lengths and steep a section in your morning coffee and then remove it ... and drink the elixir. Come back to see me when it's finished. "
In two weeks Roy appears again in the bar. He searches for the witch doctor. The witch doctor occupies his usual seat at the end of the bar.
"Doctor, doctor" Roy calls.
"Yes, Roy, I'm here. How has it gone? Has your illness lessened? Have you done as I asked? Have you cut the thong into parts and steeped it in your coffee? Is the process complete?"
"Yes, doctor" Roy answers, but with resignation and defeat in his voice:
'The thong is ended but the malady lingers on."
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