Grew up around guys whose sense of humor included dead-pan tall tales, to test people, to see how far along they could string them. If the listener didn’t balk, they were laughed at once they left.
It was more than a joke, though. They’d failed a test of manhood, or strength of personality, or mentality. If you’d let someone disrespect you enough by “handing you guff”, which is what they called it, without standing up to them, without risking being rude by contradicting them or by asking sharp questions, then you deserved what you got.
It’s a non-con man variant of Never give a sucker an even break, in short. They’re not trying to convince you to hand over anything but your gullibility.
Interesting environment for a growing writer of fiction. Their guff, or bullshit, usually started calm and believable. Gradually, odd details entered, each becoming more outlandish. Finally it would get to outright mockery, with details so ridiculous no one should accept them without throwing them back in their tellers’ faces.
Sometimes it was a round-robin affair, with each successive guy standing around confirming what was said, then adding another wrinkle, usually also adding to the unbelievable aspects.
Not only does this no doubt affect my writing at times, it’s also what comes to mind when I hear seemingly-sincere people offering outré tales of UFOs, ghosts, or bigfoot.
Examples: Once, a kid invited me to his house after school. I’d never been to his house or to his neighborhood. I’d asked if he had a sink I could use to wash up before we had a snack. “We don’t have sinks,” he said, with a straight face, in a truthful tone. Apparently he’d not known the construction I’d used to ask my question, and took it for a stupid question. I didn’t pick up on that and said, “What?” “No, there’s a stream my dad diverted so it runs through the house, kind of like an open sewer. We just use that.”
Of course his house was normal, same as mine, and there were sinks and even an indoor toilet.
Another one was when my grandfather was trying for weeks to sell a Scotty camper trailer. No one showed any interest. My wife went to another phone in the house and called the home number. When my grandfather answered, she said, “This is George Fremont, and I’m curious about that trailer you’ve got out behind your house.”
My grandfather went into salesman mode and answered about a dozen questions, each more outlandish, until finally my wife used her normal voice and said something to reveal her identity.
“You little shit!” he cried, blushing and laughing. We’d gotten him good and from then on he adored my wife almost as much as I do.
Another aspect of their humor was never to give a straight answer, but to offer oblique responses that, if you were clever, allowed you to figure out the answer on your own. Another test.
My grandfather once told my mother, when she stopped him rough-housing with me, that he was just toughening me up so the world didn’t destroy me. He viewed the world as hostile, a place for stoicism. Tough was what you could take, not dish out. You ignored what did not knock you down, and if you stayed down, they’d drag your sorry ass to the hospital.
Get as far as you can and fall forward, is my formulation of this view.
Interesting way to grow up, one I’d not trade.
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