A badly shaven man with eyes on stalks, who looks like a cabbie, in an inexcusable suit and worn boots, takes the stage. He looks gormlessly into the audience and starts to sing quietly to himself. This facility is indescribable. What he sings isn’t really all that funny, how could it be? He is singing the two thousand four hundred and twenty-eighth rhyme of his career, and there aren’t that many good ones. But this fatso has a gracefulness that gets you every time.