David Misch: Man or Myth? Or Man?

     Highland Park, Illinois, is a simple backwoods hamlet of 45,000 people nestled ‘neath the Giggling Firs and Nauseous Maples of Chicago’s quasi-historic North Shore. Its principal industry is the manufacture of defective orthopedic shoes; its primary cultural activity is frozen food abuse.

     And in a ritual that dates back to 612 years before the Dawn of Time, the babies still rise at daybreak to mine apples. At 5 A.M., the defective shoe-scented mist lifts to reveal long lines of tiny infants happily crawling off to the mines, hoping to strike a vein of that rich apple ore.

     But look there… No, not there, idiot – there. Who is that young lad carelessly wiping the soot from his overalls into the mouth of his devoted mother? Who is this boy whose grim features, angular lines, and third leg mark as the progenitor of a race of demons, angels, or realtors?

     I don’t know.

     But standing next to him is Ignatz “Cabbagehead” Misch, father of young Davyd Misch. Ignatz is standing there, musing… pondering the fate of his new-bore chile, won’drin’ ’bout whar his next meal is a-comin’ from, and tryin’ ta figger out why he’s a-thinkin’ in dialect.

     He doesn’t know.

     Around the cast-iron stoves on Main Street (a dirt path three miles from town), the old-timers talk of how Ignatz left his son out in the woods, where he was raised by wolves, pushed down by bears and swung side to side by antelopes.

     They tell of how Jed Smarmley got lost in those woods and returned with tales of a wild boy-animal who told ethnic jokes. They speak of how fearful folks on the outskirts of town left offerings in their backyards, like antique whoopee cushions and tape recordings of dirty limericks.

     Thus, the beginnings of “David” (as we know him today) Misch are clouded in mystery and legend and stuff. No one knows exactly how or why (or how) Misch entered the world of writing, when he acquired the duelling scar that forced him to purchase those now-famous prosthetic eyebrows, or where he left his tennis socks.

     Of course, we can speculate about those few highly-suspect pieces of information which have reached us: that he “probably” graduated from Pomona “College” then performed as a comic fol”ksi”nger in Boston”.”

     Legend has it that “Somerville,” a song supposedly written and performed by Mr. Misch, was released nationally by Fretless Records and that he was named “Best Comedian In Boston.” But since the only evidence to support this is a blood-stained note scrawled by a now-deceased gardener employed by a woman who claims to have once stood behind Mr. Misch in a dry cleaner’s, some historians remain skeptical.

     Indisputable evidence, though, leads us to guess that Mr. Misch moved to New York City in 1978 to become a starving standup comedian, which he did very successfully. Later that year, however, a momentous event may, or may not (or may) have occurred.

     The tale is told that Mr. Misch read of a proposed television series entitled “MorkMindy.” Inspiration struck, and he sent a letter to the Emperor of ABC suggesting the imposition of an ampersand (“&”). The Emperor, impressed by Mr. Misch’s creativity and breeding and willingness to work for small beads and wood shavings, hired him as a writer for the program, which was nominated for two Emmys, including Outstanding Comedy Series.

     A year later, Mr. Misch achieved the lofty title of Story Editor and, believing his life’s work complete, retired to a monastery in Samoa, where he became a Revered Master of “Tah lah,” a brutal form of religious discipline in which the devotee must view outtakes from “27 Dresses” while his body is pelted with squirrel dung.