It’s been said that puns are the lowest form of humor, but it’s not true. The lowest, most vicious and unpleasant form of humor is the practical joke. The practical joke is so vile, so insolent and abusive of trust, so lacking in common decency and proper respect for humanity that it should not be called a joke at all.

    Except when I do it.

    I played a good one on a friend, a newspaper columnist who had been given an onerous assignment by the corporate gods who owned him. My friend, Carl Love, was assigned to write a column for commuters in the Riverside Press-Enterprise, the daily rag with which my own illustrious publication competed.

    Carl was to write repeatedly upon the state of the highways during rush hour: what to do about it (there’s nothing you can do); how to avoid it (there’s no way to avoid it); how to pass one’s time while caught up in it (cursing). And so on. Day after day, in 600 words exactly. Carl was to do this until his bosses hired someone who was willing to do so for a career. (Satan).

    To help Carl out on his new assignment, his cruel capitalist bosses inserted a house ad into the paper: Do you have problems commuting? Send your questions to our commuter columnist, Carl Love.

    Always ready to help a pal in need, I sent a letter to Carl under an assumed name. I took care to make it as boring and whitebread as possible until I got to my commuting problem.

    Dear Carl:

    We are a young married couple who moved to Temecula to have a clean, safe place to raise our children in good schools, with like-minded people such as ourselves. I am an attorney in the entertainment industry and my wife works in public relations for various sports promoters. We both work in Los Angeles and our daily commute encompasses two hours or more each way. We drive together in one car.

    We are thrilled with our new life in the Temecula Valley. The children compete in a weekend soccer league and we have found a wonderful African woman to provide child care for our young ones after school for practically no money. On the rare days when we can return from work before nine or ten at night, we attend PTA meetings and take our children to music and dancing lessons and athletic events. When there are no soccer games or music or dance recitals on weekends, we often are too tired from our commuting to do much other than sleep. That is why we are writing to you, Carl.

    We find that, what with all the commuting we do, the only time we have available for sex is during our daily drive to and from work. Naturally, in such a position, only one person can take an active part in the sex. The driver must be passive. I prefer to drive, though I usually let my wife drive once a week.

    Here is our problem, Carl. My wife, Jennifer, says she would like to drive more often, but I am of the opinion that once a week is plenty for her. Rather than continue our increasingly frequent arguments about this, we have decided to write to you. As an expert in commuting and hygiene, we figured you might be able to give us an answer that is both wise and legal.

    Yours truly,    Bob and Jennifer Stanley

    I appended my real address and phone number and then I waited.

    I did not have an answering machine at the time, and, truth to tell, to this day I do not answer my telephone when it rings unless I feel like talking on it, which is seldom, so I missed the several calls Carl later told me he had made to my number.

    After two weeks went by without a word from the commuting columnist, I called Carl at work. We were acquaintances then, not really friends, so I did not have to disguise my voice.

    “Hi, Carl,” I said. “This is Bob Stanley. My wife and I wrote you a letter about our commuting problem and we haven’t heard from you so I wondered if you knew the answer to our problem.”

    “Umm,” Carl said, preoccupied with the struggle to earn his daily bread. “I’m sorry. What was your name?”

    “Bob and Jennifer Stanley.”

    “OH!”

    "Did you get our letter?”

    “YES!”

    “Can you help us, Carl?”

    Carl said, “Umm ...” Then the poor guy didn’t know what to say.

    "I hope you’re taking this seriously, Carl, because it is a serious problem.”

    Carl said, “Oh! Umm ...”

    “Can you help us?”

    “Umm ...”

    “Can you tell us if what we’re doing is even legal?”

    “Umm ...”

    I waited. And waited. Poor Carl. If I had not spoken again, I am sure we would both be holding onto telephone receivers to this day, waiting for the other guy to say something.

    Carl got out of the newspaper business shortly after that. Now he teaches third grade.

Robert Kahn is a North County Times staff writer.