[Steve Martin's] jokes are funny—not just funny but, you know, different, weird, "out there." Like his description of all the world's religions: "And the fourteen invisible people came down from the sky with the magic rings that only Biff could read."

Sometimes they're shocking: "Not too many people smoking out there tonight, that's pretty good; it doesn't bother me when I'm in a sleazy nightclub like this, 'cause I'm used to it, but if I'm in a restaurant, and somebody says (low moron voice, sort of like [Red] Skelton's Clem Kadiddlehopper), 'Hey, mind if I smoke?' I'll say (righteous but cool, like a salesman), 'Uh, no, do you mind if I fart?"…

Sometimes they seem to con the audience, with a little sting at the end….

Sometimes they're highly structured, like a whole routine that parodies a common theme by substituting one word….

Sometimes they're totally spontaneous, like the way he handled a heckler last year at the Boarding House; "You're not the Zebra Killer, are you? 'Cause if you're not, I'd like you to meet him."

And sometimes they're just really dumb….

And sometimes they're not jokes at all: "Here's something you don't see every day. (Steve leaps into the air several times, stretches his mouth open with both hands and roars like a raving lunatic.) Aarrgh!"

But jokes or not, traditional or far-out, these foolish bits and pieces have two things in common: one, they are utterly without redeeming social importance; they're like little pills you swallow that make you laugh—no message, no ulterior motive or purpose. And two, Steve doesn't really need them to be funny. It's true, I've seen it happen many times—Steve walks onstage and in thirty seconds, without telling one joke, reduces his audience to a state of helpless giddiness that lasts for the rest of the show. Sometimes they start laughing even before he comes out because he has this habit, as the club announcer is introducing him, of clowning around in the wings just enough to make the first few rows go nuts. Then he walks on with a superconfident air about him—Las Vegas Professional—wearing maybe a handsome white suit or a handsome dark one, an expensive-looking banjo strapped to his ever-so-nonchalant body, and with a voice as corny and mellow as Mel Torme's he says something like this:

"Well, welcome to the show, ladies and gentlemen. My name's Steve Martin, I'll be out here in just a minute, and uh … let's get goin', we're gonna have some fun tonight, huh? (Laughs like an imbecile) How much was it to get in? Four dollars? (Laughs arrogantly, like the joke's on you) Okay, you paid the money, you're expecting to see a professional show, so let's not waste any more time, here we go with Professional Show Business, let's go, hey! (Steve steps back and starts tuning his banjo; he is consumed by the process, pawing at the pegs, fretting over the frets. Finally he looks up at the audience, beams, strides forward and bangs his head into the mike.) Okay, we're movin' now, eh folks? Yes, these are the good times and we're having them, ah ha ha ha."

I mean, what is this shit? Here's one of the hottest comedians in the business, certainly one of the best looking, best dressed, quickest witted, most poised, most imaginative and most accomplished in such varied arts as magic, juggling, banjo playing and fun balloon animals—and he's standing up there acting like a jerk, an idiot, a fucking asshole! And that's the whole point. It's like … Steve Martin basically has one joke and he's it. And it drives the crowd wild, not just during the show but long afterward. (pp. 61-2)

Well, that's really not quite true, because the whole point about Steve Martin, what makes Steve Martin so special … is that eventually, maybe a day or two after the show, his audience stops laughing … and they start acting … really … weird. They start acting like Steve Martin; they start talking like him, moving like him, wearing some of his corny trickshop props. Some writers, you may have already guessed, start writing like him. They simply can't help it, and quite frankly, I'm not sure they'll ever be able to stop….

It's like … Steve plays with his audience, he makes them part of the joke; he sets them up and slaps them down, and by acting like an asshole, he lets them do the same to him. This isn't comedy; it's campfire recreation for the bent at heart. It's a laughalong for loonies. Disneyland on acid. (p. 62)

But he does have this higher insight. He breaks down barriers. He allows us to see the comedian in all of us. And I believe that really is important in today's world. In his own way, Steve Martin is a light, a source, an inspiration and a leader.

It's just that … well … you'd be an asshole to follow him. (p. 63)