Call me a sentimental S.O.B., but I miss Yakov Smirnov. I know the Cold War has been over for a few years now, and that is a good thing. Still, I long for the days when Yakov Smirnov used his special brand of immigrant humor to point out the foibles of life in Communist Russia.
The first time I saw Yakov was on an episode of “Night Court.” He was mixed up in some sort of real estate scheme and had to go to court. I feared that Dan Fielding would nail Yakov’s russki balls to the wall, when suddenly Yakov chimed in with his “What a country” bit. Needless to say, the courtroom was adjourned for a slight recess of riotous laughter. When the hearing resumed, Judge Harry dropped all charges and let our beloved Smirnov go home a free man.
A few months later, I saw Yakov during his “No funny, no money” tour at the Crazy Shack comedy club in Chicago. As the zany political refugee took the stage, the Midwestern crowd became a little apprehensive. They didn’t know what to expect from Smirnov. What they got was a blistering 12-hour set of “What a country” jokes.
As I sat near the exit, I counted at least a baker’s dozen comedy fans being carried out on stretchers, having suffered violent laugh attacks. Five of those people would die, but with smiles on their faces. What a way to go.
Those were the good days. Unfortunately, no one has heard from Yakov since the Berlin Wall fell. Where is he now? Maybe he is directing films in Hollywood. Maybe he is sleeping in John Larroquette’s garage. Maybe he is being brutally tortured by angry Russian nationalists.
Whatever the case might be, I think we all owe it to Yakov, and to ourselves, to find him. Let us scour the earth. Please join me in this crusade.
Better yet, let's hire him for our party in Boston.