Don’t hate me because I’m funny

Public education has made commendable strides in taking the bite out of bullies. Likewise, considerable effort has been spent helping the racially harassed, the gender confused and the eating disordered.

But for all the progress, one student subgroup remains as unappreciated and maligned as Liza Minnelli’s last husband.

I’m talking about the plight of the poor class clown.

The wisecracker who can bury a finger all the way up a nostril. The maniac who interrupts quiet moments of learning with artillery bursts of faux flatulence. The prankster with the seemingly endless supply of rubber dog doo …

Every classroom has one.

A few from these ranks have gone on to international prominence: Jim Carrey, Robin Williams, Saddam Hussein, to name a few.

For most class clowns, alas, the reception for their school standup is stiffer than open-mic night at the local graveyard.

Take the recent regrettable incident that happened in Post Falls.

A second-grader at Prairie View Elementary was sent to the principal’s office and then home for the day after he kidded with a couple of friends about having a gun, the newspaper reported.

The lad had no weapon. When asked why he uttered such a thing, the boy reportedly replied:

“Well, I was trying to think of a good joke, and that’s all I came up with.”

Show me one comedian who hasn’t said the same thing after bombing in the Catskills.

Punishing this boy was an outrage. He didn’t deserve to be returned to sender like an unwanted piece of mail. He just needs help with his delivery and material.

He should have stuck with some of the second-grade classics:

“I have a big booger,” for example. That always kills.

Or, “Your butt smells like a manure head.” Bravo!

Telling schoolmates you’re packing heat is edgy stuff. Anyone who dares tread down that dark hallway must be sure to:

1. Simultaneously follow up the gun line with a spirited crotch squeeze and …

2. Strike a Michael Jackson pose.

Comedy is all about context.

Sometimes this zero-tolerance stuff makes no sense. In the name of Lenny Bruce, the kid’s no terrorist. He’s probably just a class clown in the early stages of shtick development.

I was just like him once.

Spokane’s Franklin Elementary was my training ground. There, I was punished regularly for flicking bottle caps or unleashing Tarzan yells. My big closer was bending an index finger all the way back to my wrist, which, by the way, is guaranteed to give any cute girl the dry heaves.

Sure, I was an attention-seeking fool. But don’t blame me. I was born with an uncontrollable urge to mock figures of authority.

COLUMN NEWS BREAK: Preparing for bird flu, Spokane County has hired an additional dozen relatives of Commissioner Phil Harris. “More Harris kinfolk on the payroll won’t fight a flu epidemic,” said a county spokesman. “Phil just thinks it’s important to have family around in time of crisis.”

Sorry. What was I saying?

Oh, yeah. We class cut-ups can’t stop our clowning ways any more than Pat Robertson can refrain from being a gibbering moron.

We need guidance, not scorn. Had I been better trained in the comedic arts as a child – who knows? – I might have been able to get out of Spokane and make it all the way to Moses Lake.

But while it’s too late for me, there’s still time to help the jokers of tomorrow.

I call on educators to create Class Clown Camps, hilarity havens where adolescent wiseacres can work on their nose-ramming and punch-lining without fear of reprisal. They will also study the masters like Mel Brooks, who once said:

“Tragedy is if I cut my finger. Comedy is if you walk into an open sewer and die.”