June 1957 Popular Electronics Table of Contents Wax nostalgic about and learn from the history of early electronics. See articles from Popular Electronics, published October 1954 - April 1985. All copyrights are hereby acknowledged.

You will love the irony at the end of this Carl Kohler technodrama. It appeared in the June 1957 issue of Popular Electronics magazine. I'm not going to spoil it by even hinting at the conclusion - only that the story follows the familiar path of the dauntless husband-electronic-hobbyist taking off on another of his somewhat hair-brained ideas, while "friend-wife" (tolerant and supportive to a degree) looks on. Her self-restraint is tested, as usual - although she jabs with some uncharacteristically harsh zingers this time. Have you noticed how men are expected to be self-deprecating in situations in order to create humor? The technology here was considered bleed-edge back in the day. I took the liberty of colorizing the drawings. BTW, I fed the husband's humor bait to AI and it came up with some pretty good responses - like what had been expected by him. AI came up with a long name for FUNIAC (clearly a play on names like UNIVAC and ENIAC) - "Fictional Universal Numerical Idea Analyzer & Composer."

FUNIAC

By Carl Kohler

Huddled around around a cup of coffee, I squinted groggily across the breakfast table at my wife. She enthusiastically attacked her scrambled eggs with the appetite and energy of a woman who gets nine hours sleep every night.

"Up pretty late last night, weren't you?" she observed between mouthfuls. "What's the matter - those cartoons giving you trouble again?"

I nodded foggily and poured myself more coffee.

"Run out of funny ideas?"

"Must be in a mental slump," I muttered. "Just can't seem to toss off the ho-ho with ease any more. Sometimes I find myself wishing I'd gone in for a sensible career - like sand-hogging or tearoom - managing, maybe - instead of magazine - cartooning."

"Well, you better snap out of it - and darn fast, too," she advised cold-heartedly. "The competition is turning out funny stuff as if they had cartoon machines instead of drawing by -"

"Hey!" I gurgled.

Mental circuits hummed with a sudden overload of idea-juice. Little light-banks of inspiration blinked furiously in the switchboards of my head.

"Say that again!" I demanded, my eyes flapping wide-open - my entire being alert now.

"You mean about the competition -"

"Nah! The cartoon machine! Don't you see it? That's the answer! The solution! Hurray for your accidental genius and all that jazz!" I rose from my chair and executed a deft, impromptu clog around the table. "That's what I need - a cartoon machine!"

"Oh, come off it," she scoffed. "Whoever heard of a machine drawing cartoons?"

"Drawing-schmawing," I hooted happily. "I'm talking about a machine - an electronic device - that thinks up the ideas for cartoons. The drawing is the least of my worries. What I really need is help with the funny ideas!" I broke into a time-step and cavorted merrily.

"You've been working too hard," she stated flatly. "Any time you begin coming up with ideas that only a maniac might -"

"Sure, that's it!" I hollered joyously, hugging her until her collarbones groaned. "MANIAC! ENIAC! BIZMAC! SEAC!"

"What are you ranting about?"

"Electronic brain machines! Digital computers and all that ultra-modern tech-talk! I'll build one designed to compose and analyze humor situations! Feed a few basic concepts into it and - presto - out come fresh, original cartoon ideas!"

"Oh, galloping grief, and to think -"

"I'll call it FUNIAC!"

"- that I thought I had finally -"

"It'll revolutionize the field!"

"-heard everything insanely possible in -

"Sure! Automation comes to cartooning!"

"-this zany hobby of -"

"Naturally, it'll be my little professional secret. Can't have the clever, clever competition latching onto a good thing like FUNIAC!"

"- weird wiring and -" she stopped and peered closely at me. "You're really serious about this nutty scheme, aren't you?"

I winked roguishly.

"You just get ready to live on Easy Street - thanks to FUNIAC! Oh, man! No more long, weary hours trying to revamp old ideas! No more mind-searing sessions switching other guy's stuff! No more head-buster attempts at creating really original cartoons! No sir! Just feed a card into FUNIAC and watch the supremely top-notch fresh situational humor pop out at me!"

"Well," she sighed, "it sounds great."

"You actually entertain doubts?"

"Let's just say I don't think the damn thing'll work worth beans. In fact, if it turns out anything like your past fiascos, it'll probably dream up stark drama!"

"Cynic," I accused crisply.

"All us realists are cynics," she said.

"Especially those of us married to meter-heads like you, dear."

My first step toward creating FUNIAC was, of course, purchasing the components and parts necessary to construct a digital computer. I sauntered into the Golenpaul Electronics Supply Shop and carefully began selecting the necessary parts.

When the items passed the 200 mark, Mr. Golenpaul finally released his ill-concealed curiosity.

"An invention you're building?" he inquired casually.

I glanced around the shop. "Can I trust you with a very important secret?"

"Well, I trust you." Golenpaul studied the list of components. "As of now, you're on the books for $162.33 worth. If I can trust you for a small fortune in electrical equipment, I think your secret is in good company."

Lowering my voice to a hoarse whisper, I detailed my planned project to him - particularly embellishing the profits to follow its initial operation. He just shook his head sadly.

"What's the matter?" I demanded.

"Such craziness," he said gloomily. "And what about those nice boys who sometimes write gags for you ? What happens to them when you replace them with this machine?"

"Oh, I suppose they'll go into something more reliable - like tearoom-managing or sand-hogging," I replied evenly, reminding myself that a true scientist has to be totally objective, and a pox on sentiment.

Golenpaul shrugged.

"No, there's nothing - like a little greed to make the world go around." He shot me a shrewd glance. "And the wife? What does she think?"

"She thinks I'm batty. Flipped."

"Such a smart girl, that one," said Golenpaul, chuckling softly.

Two hours later I began building FUNIAC. In between putting components into properly relative positions and fussing with miles of circuitry until it made sense, I studied the short ton of books on Computer Theory and Electronic Information Banks.

Once, the wife entered the workshack long enough to look at the growing profusion of cabinets, wiring layouts, phase-control units, storage-gate setups, pulse-regulators and flip-flops. Darkly, she peered at the entire half -assembled instrument and then transferred her fascinated attention to me.

"Will it work?" she asked timidly.

"It had better!" I declared feelingly, "I haven't slugged my courageous way through tomes on Boolean Algebra and Cybernetics for the sheer mathematical fun of it!

"Jeezely!" She was unashamedly impressed.

"Two more weeks of this," I complained "and I'll be able to write my own ticket at Cal-Tech."

And then - suddenly - FUNIAC was finished and ready for testing.

"Stop quivering," suggested the wife as I prepared to feed situation elements into the maw of the Material Analyzer Receiver. "You're as nervous as a mouse at a cat rally."

"You're telling me? I've immersed myself so thoroughly in this thing - I don't think thoughts any more; I've got equations on the brain."

"What exactly happens?" she asked.

"I'll feed an ordinary locale, an unfunny set of characters and an insipid word or phrase into it. Then, unless FUNIAC turns out to be a complete flop, it'll rearrange these elements into a humorous situation. A gag, in other words."

"Amazing!" she gasped.

I chose a slip of paper upon which I'd written:

Man. Woman. Desert Island. "May I borrow a cup of sugar?"

I fed it to FUNIAC.

There was no clanking, whirring or mad flashing of indicator lights ... no ominous clicking or warning whines ... only a smooth humming as the brain-machine digested this intelligence in oily silence. Fretfully we waited, the wife abstractly gnawing her polished nails while I cracked my knuckles in an agony of uncertainty.

Suddenly FUNIAC's card-file-selector began clacking furiously. Seconds later, a small white slip of paper popped out of the solution-slot, bearing the words:

This is not a bona fide gag-idea. Situation stated is based upon gross tragedy. Tragedy cannot be evaluated, in this instance, into humorous terms.

Stunned, I turned the slip of paper over and over, wondering what could have gone wrong. FUNIAC was supposed to create gags, not analyze them.

"Well, I guess you've been told!" snickered the wife. "And by a machine of your own making, no less!"

"Quiet!" I rasped. Quickly, I jotted down another situation and gag-line. I fed it to the computer and waited. A moment later the solution-slot spat another slip of paper. It read:

Situation stated is not potentially humorous. Suggest you get authorized gagman.

"My God!" howled the wife. "A mechanical editor! You've gone and built yourself a mechanical editor! Now I've seen everything!"

Despair nibbled at the edge of my mind. Then, a desperate idea came to me: feed the machine the most basic of humorous situations - the rawest material upon which more refined humor is based.

Swiftly, I scribbled this material:

Man throwing custard pie into another man's face.

FUNIAC accepted and digested this offering in one-half the time previously taken. The ensuing slip of paper read:

Situation absurd. Have you ever considered sand-hogging or tearoom management?

The wife lurched about the room in a spasm of advanced hysteria ... happy- type hysteria. I slumped into a chair -staring at the gleaming computer with haunted mien and dull eyes. It was quite obvious what automation in the humor field was going to do to the hackneyed set. I shuddered. A vision of a dank tunnel materialized in my mind. It was followed by a montage of tea cups, silverware and a small, chintz-horrible room.

"Y- You've had it!" said the wife, wiping the tears of warped merriment from her eyes and slowing to an infrequent simper. "Admit it. This is just like all your other mad ideas. Come on, admit it!"

Desperation is a powerful emotion. Built up sufficiently, it breeds a rare, insanely brilliant courage. Even the most frightened mouse will bite when finally cornered.

My gorge rose like a guided missile.

"Okay," I hissed. "Okay, sister. This - - - machine thinks it's so - - - smart. We'll see. We'll just see how smart this mess of electronic wise-guy really is!" I snatched up pencil and paper, and began writing savagely.

"Don't be a diehard," groaned the wife, still not completely recovered from her recent spasms.

Ignoring her faithful encouragement, I studied what I'd written.

Man is professional humorist. He's having difficulty producing suitably fresh humor ideas. In fact, he's mentally, emotionally and physically exhausted. Man's wife is unsympathetic, well rested and more interested in her breakfast than in hearing his professional problems. Situation is set at the breakfast table.

Chuckling wickedly, I carefully inserted it into the computer. There was a long silence.

"W-What's happening?" asked the wife, fearfully backing off toward the door. "H-How come it isn't d-doing anything ?"

My chuckle took on a positively unhealthy tinge of ill-concealed triumph. "Well, I imagine FUNIAC is about to short- circuit its fine, fat little electronic mind trying to play fast and loose with this contribution!"

"W-Will it blow up ?"

"It might."

"Don't s-stand so close t-to it."

"Hah!" I chortled. "Listen to those puzzled clicks and clacks! Listen to that bewildered stream of mystified static!" I slapped my knee in joyous appreciation of having finally given FUNIAC a real, rootin'-tootin' brain buster. "Wanna make a small bet it asks me to repeat the statement ?"

FUNIAC suddenly set up a shrill whine, punctuated by anguished sputtering and fizzling. The entire cabinet fairly quivered with labored effort and intense electrical strain. A faint odor of burnt wiring filled the room.

"Now there's a diehard for you!" I cackled.

Without warning a continuous strip of paper shot from the solution-slot and began pilling up at FUNIAC'S base. I grabbed the top of it and started reading:

Huddled around a cup of coffee, I squinted groggily across the breakfast table at my wife. She enthusiastically attacked her scrambled eggs with the appetite and energy of a woman who gets nine hours sleep every night . . .

 FUNIAC is safely disconnected and stored away down in a quiet corner of the basement these days. Some day I may plug it in again and try something else; but the world isn't ready for FUNIAC yet.

And, frankly, neither am I.