"Phil and the Answer Man" joke

We’re back in 1976 and I am in sixth grade. And much to my initial delight, Miss Rotenberg (the emetic virago assigned to teach the little ones French) is absent (perhaps she fell off her broomstick?). Instead, we have a substitute teacher – a large, lumpy fellow who bears an uncanny resemblance to Mr. Potato Head.

I cannot recall his real name, but it didn’t matter since he had his own special ID for my class. “I’m the Answer Man!” he declared with the enthusiasm one associates with the discovery of gold or a life-saving pill. “Ask me any question you have and I will answer it!”

My class, which was never challenged by Miss Rotenberg’s prattling, suddenly became animated with the glory of being asked to participate in something that was genuinely fun and perhaps a bit daring – it was unusual for an adult to lay down an intellectual challenge to a sixth grade class.

To his credit, the Answer Man kept his word – he did answer the questions. But answering a question and answering a question correctly are not the same thing and it appeared that the Answer Man’s enthusiasm was not equal to his knowledge. Relatively simple questions relating to sports, TV shows and comic book characters (all of prime importance to the sixth graders) eluded the Answer Man and he offered responses that ranged from feeble to surreal.

However, I believed the Answer Man could offer insight on a subject that fascinated me during this time. Little me and my gaggle of sixth grade pals began to notice something that we never took seriously before: girls. Of primary interest to us was a subsection of the subject: breasts. Granted, none of the girls in our class were in league with Dolly Parton, but the whole concept of boobies provided the sixth grade boys with endless fascination – it dominated our conversations, our doodling and our private thoughts.

So when the Answer Man pointed to my upraised hand, I had a question for him: “How much does the average woman’s breast weigh?”

The Answer Man, who was a jolly old St. Nick up to that question, suddenly transformed himself into an utterly shocked moral puritan who was aghast that such blasphemy could be aired. “That’s it! That’s it!” he yelled. “No more talking for the rest of the period! Everyone sit quietly and don’t say a word – and anyone who says something will be thrown out of the class!”

My classmates turned at me with scorn, their faces offering mute disgust at how my question could disrupt their funtime. But I wasn’t apologetic – hey, I had a serious question (or at least I thought it was serious).

We never saw the Answer Man again. And, oddly enough, I never bothered to find out the answer to my question. Oh well, tits ahoy!