How goes it, ladies and germs? It's great to be back at CollegeHumor, just fantastic. The name's Marty, but everyone calls me "The Rib-Tickler." You know, I used to kill at this joint. Then in '72 they gave Marty the ol' heave-ho. According to the fat cats upstairs, my gags were growing a little stale. "You want stale?" I told them, "Try my wife's cooking!"

I'll tell you the straight truth: Getting 86-ed was the best thing that ever happened to this old showman. These days I'm hosting a dynamite variety show Tuesdays and Thursdays up at Foxwoods. Sure, they pay me in buffet vouchers and I have to be off the stage by 7 o'clock to make room for some fruity Polish circus, but I get to score some knock-out grass from the Native Americans working the Keno booth.

Meanwhile, CH's material is dead in the water—and that's two cents you can take to the bank, ladies and germs. I got four decades in this biz under my belt, and if there's one thing I know, it's comedy. Where are all the motorized bowties? When's the last time someone spat out a glass of water because his wife crashed the Studebaker? I'll tell you where they are: six feet under, with all the greats of yesteryear—Donnie Rickman, "Crazy" Rodney Mershowitz, the Dancin' Thompson brothers.

These new kids couldn't joke their way out of a cardboard box. And I should know—I lived in one in the back of a Burbank Sam's Club for a brief period in the mid '80s after an open mic I was hosting fired me for doing my classic blackface routine. I don't get it. That bit used to bring the house down at Jackie's Joke Barn. If smearing shoe polish across your mug and singing "Camptown Races" while doing a soft shoe doesn't get a laugh anymore, then this biz is in serious trouble.