The Humour Writing of Vince Johnson Vince Johnson is a California native, he grew up around San Francisco and Palo Alto. Vince says, "I've always been a writer. First thing I wrote was a fairy tale in the fifth grade. I had people flying into rages as they always do in fairy tales. We didn't have junior highs when I was a kid. I went directly from grammar school to high school and went out for boxing, swimming, football, baseball, rassling. I was pretty good in everything, a standout in nothing. I wrote sports for the school paper.
At Paly High I fell desperately in love with Sue Fontaine and stole her away from Bud Larsen. I am still looking for Sue. Anybody know whatever happened to her?
For the last fifteen years I've been freelancing and writing columns and humor for local weeklies. I edited two weeklies.
The kids are all grown. My wife left me, the dog died."
The Fully Authorized Biography of Vince Johnson His Astonishing Life in Plain English
By Vince's mom. Ruthlessly checked for accuracy by himself
It would be neither fair nor factual to pass over this particular Johnson with a mere catalogue of his accomplishments. In a scientific work of this kind it is perfectly proper to say, first, that staggered as we are by the fecundity of his loins, much more needs to be said about this unique example of how far humanity may advance in one astonishing bound. One has only to examine the slow progress of evolution to fully comprehend the dramatic ascension represented by Vince's appearance on the scene—-this instant marvel of creation who, mere days after his birth, rocked the ivy covered halls of learning with brilliant orations and mathematical calculations beyond the power of computers.
The shameful record shows that unbelieving scholars and philosophers dragged Vince's crib into their temple, where, smirking and stroking their beards, these Great Men questioned him closely on the Ancient & Royal sciences of reason and logic. Rapid fire, they barraged him with questions that had baffled the greatest minds for eons. It was a dirty trick. They meant to demolish the boy quickly and send him back to the nursery a squalling brat. "What is the meaning of Life?" they asked him, chuckling away. "What does it all mean?"
But the unanswerable logic that poured from the young genius could not be denied. Confounded, knowing that if Vince was right their work of a lifetime was dust, they thought up even harder questions — Why didn't the sun shine at night? Why was winter so cold? These eternal mysteries, too, Vince polished off with sharp authority. Dozens of weeping scholars, wailing for lost years of fruitless study, now wandered blindly out of the hall to oblivion. It was all over for these false prophets.
Advanced Swedish thinkers fell to their knees in adoration. "It's Him!" gasped one of the squareheads, gazing up in wonder at the beatific expression on Vince's innocent face.
But the Innocent Babe didn't know he was demolishing careers. "I forgive you," he said. "You stupid bastards know not what the hell you do."
"Nonsense!" screamed a fellow whose dark past reeked of Danish blood. "It 's some kind of trick!"
Fighting for their professional lives now, overwhelmed by the Niagara of irrefutable knowledge roaring in their heads, the professors knew they had only one way out--they must prove that the tiny boy was a Messenger from the Devil--was in fact the Devil! They decided to use tactics which had worked so successfully against two earlier Swedes, Newton and Galileo--denial and contempt, followed by torture: "Let's see if he recants on the rack!" cried a dumb little Dane with big ears.
But months of torture merely brightened the flame of defiance in the brave little boy's eyes. In the end, it was his torturers who cracked. Their instruments of torture, blackened and bloody, lay broken on the floor. Finally, just to get them off his back, Vince tossed them a crumb: he revealed the secret of the golf swing. This revelation convinced his inquisitors that he was indeed The One. They knew beyond doubt that after centuries of trial and error, after countless human rejects evolution had culminated in sublime perfection--Vinny Johnson was here!
"Aw hell!" grumbled the scriveners. "Now we gotta rewrite all those ancient scrolls."
"Hah!" said the stone masons. "You think you got it rough. We've gotta chisel all his sayings in granite!"
NOTE: The reader must know that the historian's lot is hard. No matter how sensational the subject matter, no matter how the work cries out for elaboration, the historian must stringently restrict himself to a dry recitation of facts without comment or opinion. In light of this literary confinement, the author may perhaps at the conclusion of this disciplined work be forgiven an editorial indulgence:
After The Coming, many thinkers of great repute tried to salvage ruined careers by rushing into print great tomes claiming that they always knew the Johnsons could do it and, in fact, had come close to a Vince in 1927 when they squeezed out his older brother Eric.
But it was no use. Their shrieks for mercy could not wipe out the memory of the thousands of lectures in which they had inflicted on innocent students the false theory that evolution was a random process of selection and rejection, and that in a chaotic universe no perfect human being could ever be produced. What could they say? Vince was here.
Later they found out he was a hell of a golfer too.