I love Norm MacDonald.  

Long before The Daily Show’s ill-fated Craig Kilborn stint and subsequent wildly successful Jon Stewart stint, there was SNL’s Weekend Update.  And, in my humble opinion, no one helmed the Weekend Update desk better than Norm MacDonald.  One of the things we like to do now is go back and pick apart the past, holding it to today’s standards, and I won’t ignore the fact that there were parts of Norm’s comedy that would be viewed as problematic today, but this isn’t one of those pieces.  I want to celebrate Norm’s life and his contribution to comedy.  But mostly, I want to share how Norm MacDonald’s comedy affected me.

Saturday Night Live hasn’t been great for as long as I can remember, but being allowed to stay up late and watch Norm’s Weekend Update was always a highlight of my childhood.  I probably shouldn’t have been watching and I probably didn’t understand half of what he said, but I was mesmerized.  When he got his own show opposite Laurie Metcalfe, I was on board immediately.  I loved that show then, though I have no idea how it would hold up if I were to watch it now (a topic I’ll be tackling with many titles in my Revisiting series), but I do know that whenever I’m playing poker with friends, I sit down, look at my cards, and say “I have an excellent egg”; I’m almost certain my brother will be the only one who understands the reference, but in an episode of Norm, Norm explained his perfect poker face system, in which he states “I have excellent cards”.  Through a series of mishaps I no longer remember, he ends up at what he thinks is an underground poker game, but turns out to be a game where you have to smash another person’s egg with your egg, without breaking your own.  So, with his foolproof system in place, “I have an excellent egg,” he says, and he goes on to play.  What could possibly go wrong, right?

Norm’s movies might be some of those that also don’t hold up, but I remember the trembling excitement I had when returning from the local Hollywood Video with a copy of Dirty Work to run through my dad’s new fancy DVD machine (though I’m through and through a city person now, the suburb in which I grew up was so small at the time, it didn’t have a Blockbuster until several years later).  Again, I couldn’t tell you if I’d like it if I watched the movie now, but I’m willing to bet I’d still get several laughs out of Norm’s glorious delivery.  I still can say “I’ve never seen so many dead hookers in my life” and elicit a response of “Lord knows I have” thanks to Norm’s creative revenge-for-hire business in Dirty Work (the sex workers in question weren’t actually dead).  Okay, so maybe only from my brother, but having a brother is great for that, you’ve got someone built-in who will get most of your references.  

Later on in life, Norm took a role that no one is talking about and that, still, boggles my mind as to how it happened.  I can’t imagine the conversation that went on to lead my favorite Norm MacDonald role.  But hey, let’s give it a shot anyway.  

Norm’s Agent: “Hey Norm, I’ve got a role I think you’d be great in.”

Norm: “Oh yeah? If this is another trick to get me into Gamblers Anonymous, I’m not falling for it this time.”

Norm’s Agent: “No, no, it’s nothing like that.  It’s voicing a cartoon, you won’t even need to wear pants.”

Norm: “You piqued my interest, sir, when you said I didn’t need to wear pants.  Do they want me to be the new voice of Buzz Lightyear in Toy Story 5?  Everyone’s pretty sick of that Tim Allen now.  Why doesn’t he go and do another long running sitcom that’s identical to one of his other sitcoms?”

Norm’s Agent: “No, it’s not Pixar.  It’s a show.  Where you solve mysteries, like Scooby Doo.”

Norm: “You want me to voice Scooby Doo?  Ruh roh.  Or is it Shaggy?  ‘Give me some Scooby snacks, fuckface’.  I’ll workshop that line.”

Norm’s Agent: “Well, not exactly.  It’s a show called Mike Tyson Mysteries.  You solve mysteries with the cartoon version of Mike Tyson.”

Norm (in disbelief): “Okay…”

Norm’s Agent: “You’ll be playing a man….who everyone will call ‘Pigeon’.”

Norm: “Why do they call him Pigeon, what is he, some sort of sexually-attracted-to-birds weirdo?”

Norm’s Agent:  “Well, not exactly.  He’s a man…who was turned into a pigeon…by his witch of an ex-wife.”

Norm: “I see.  At least I’ll be able to make fun of Mike Tyson.  Who’s impersonating his voice?”

Norm’s Agent: “Weeeellllllll, he’s voicing himself, so if you’re going to make fun of of him, I’d do it outside of punching or biting range.”

Norm: “I see.  Well, how much does it pay?”

Norm’s Agent: “They’ll meet your quote.”

Norm: “Then I’m in.  No pants, right?”

I could go on and talk about other flawless moments of Norm’s career, like Courtney Thorne Smith’s interview with Conan, but for me Mike Tyson Mysteries was nothing I’d seen before and Norm’s portrayal of Pigeon, a horny, crude, alcoholic, bitter, and unfiltered victim of witchcraft was absolutely perfect.  The show was (I assume was, I’m not sure it will go on without him) amazing and Norm’s performances were often the highlight of many, many episodes.  He was an integral part of that show and he made me laugh time and time again, just as he’d done throughout my life.

Norm MacDonald was one of those formative comedians for me—along with the likes of Dave Chappelle, Bill Murray, Chris Rock, Jon Stewart, Mitch Hedberg, Eddie Murphy, and Steven Wright—the comedians who taught me something about comedy itself.  They showed me the importance of making people laugh, the nobility of devoting your life to bringing smiles and laughter to people who may need it in ways you’ll never know.  Norm was one of the comedians that made me want to be a funnier person; someone who could brighten someone’s day with something clever or cut the ego with a sharp stroke of wit.  He was one of the people who made me believe in the power and strength of comedy, and from there I was able to see how the next generation took comedy and evolved it into literature (like Phoebe Waller-Bridge’s brilliant Fleabag or Bo Burnham’s excellent Inside).  I’m not saying we wouldn’t have experienced that without him, but I see an easy through-line from Norm and his contemporaries to the upper echelon of comedy we have now.  I often say the best comedy comes from a kernel of sadness, because that sadness is real.  But Norm was somehow the exception to that—he was real, but without the sadness.  He was just funny.  

I will sadly, deeply, and truly miss Norm MacDonald.  Poker face.  I have an excellent egg.