A story about Groucho Marx
I used to work as an impressionist in New Orleans, at Anything Goes. I started doing Groucho after I got bored with W.C. Fields. After a few months, I was channeling Groucho, coming up with quips that he never made, but were amazingly in character.
One night, I was leaning against a wall watching a co-worker of mine (and with whom I would subsequently fall into a passionate love affair) perform her schtick: Shirly Temple. She was tap dancing, and singing Animal Crackers in my Soup.
Afterward, she came over to me, and speaking loudly in character so that the whole room could hear, asked “How did you like that, Mr. Groucho?”
To which I replied, equally loudly, “That’s very nice little girl, but can you do “Super Animals in my Crack”?”
The room exploded. The manager grabbed me by the neck, and walked me into the kitchen, trying uselessly to hold back his laughter, saying “If you ever—hahahaha—do something like that—hahahaha—again, I will fire you—haha—on the spot—haha…”
Another night, I was doing the breaststroke on one of the tables, and one of the guests aspirated a chunk of steak. I jumped up, gave him the heimlich maneuver, and out popped the meat. Later on, the wife came up and tipped me $50, and I said “Fifty bucks? Is that all that poor slob is worth to you?” She laughed, and gave me another fifty.
