As my wife and I entered the comedy club on our good will mission to see and hear the first-time stand-up comedy performance of my dental patient, the laconic and sincere Maury, we realized we were out of our element. We both silently prayed for Maury.

We were older by 30 years than the most senior of the patrons attending the show. The darkness of the cavernous night club could not hide my gray hair and my sense of not belonging. Everyone was having a grand, old time, except us. Lorraine and I kept looking, right and left, at the youthful orgiastic scene, observing, but hoping fervently not to be observed.

The seemingly teen-aged waitress approached our small table and informed us of our two drink minimum. As we placed our order in the blackened room, a spotlight burst onto the empty stage at the exact moment the band struck an ear-shattering chord.

Onto the stage, and into the round, bright spotlight jumped a plaid-jacketed, entirely too brash master of ceremonies. The audience applauded his appearance with great exuberance and gusto. They obviously knew him very well or the two drink minimum was beginning to take effect.

His patter and subject matter were puerile, immature, infantile and, in one final word, disgusting. Bathroom innuendoes, and childish sex fantasies poured out of his oral cavity, in a never-ending gush of bad taste and bad manners. Lorraine and I clenched our collective teeth and persevered.

"How many acts have to perform before Maury comes onstage?" asked Lorraine.

"We have been here 20 minutes and you sound like you want to leave," I replied.

"Bingo!" Lorraine answered.

"Maury is the sixth act. Just relax and enjoy the interesting show," I said, as I raised my eyeballs and shook my head from side-to-side.

It actually should have been called a tragedy show, not a comedy show!

Inept performers, who could not string two lines together without a deafening pause, filled the stage.

Foul-mouthed young men and women uttering low attempts at humor followed into the spotlight.

Whenever the monologue went badly, we were showered with four-letter words and extensions of four-letter word meanings that would make a sailor blush.

Please, Maury, hurry, so we can see and hear you and retreat back to our outdated and old-fashioned existence!

The fifth act ended, and there, on stage, was Maury. Praise God! Hallelujah!

Slow-talking, slow-moving, languid, laconic Maury was performing his stand-up comedy routine. Self-deprecatingly funny was Maury. Kind and easy-going gibes and observations filled the room. Maury was rolling! It was a "kill" for Maury. Even the audience seemed to understand the act.

Maury was a hit!

He left the stage with the greatest applause of hands and loudest feet-stamping of all of the performers.

It was our slow-talking Maury! We went backstage to congratulate him.

"Maury, you were the best. Clean, honest humor. You towered over everyone. We are very proud of you."

In his usual, modest, halting speech, he thanked us for coming, kissed my wife's cheek and shook my hand firmly.

It was a night to remember.