If comedy is the Devil's handiwork, then I've just seen Hell.

Sometime this summer, I went to a comedy club, which shall remain the Improv on Melrose, and discovered the truth in the old saying about too much of a good thing.

It began innocently enough. Toni of the inseparable Toni-and-Brian unit (you all know couples like this) called with an offer I couldn't refuse. She had free tickets for five to the Improv.

Note: Two drink minimum. Each drink is a minimum of $3.50. Food also really expansive. Laughing makes you hungry and thirsty. Tax extra. Fifteen percent gratuity automatically added.

What a deal!

I rounded up George and Robin on short notice and headed down to the club. arriving early at 7:15 p.m. Tone that time. That hour marked the beginning of my descent into the eternal flame pit.

7:35 p.m.: Toni-and-Brian arrives. No problem, the show doesn't start for another 25 minutes. In the interim, we listen to car alarms, sirens, helicopters and other natural sounds of twilight in Los Angeles.

8:05 p.m.: We are let into the club. How considerate of them to begin the comedy before they have let in all the patrons, so we wouldn't have that awkward silence in which to find our seats and order our first drink form the waitress, who darts around our table, hovering expectantly like some horny hummingbird carrying a drink tray.

And what drinks these were! This must have been the best Sprite ever to pass my lips, based on its 50 cents per ice cube price tag, not including tax and gratuity.

8:10 p.m.: An average comic works up the stage, warming up the customers, who giggle delightedly, unaware of the horror to follow. The drinks arrive, and I settle into my chair, trying to find the one position that maximizes my BAT (Buttocks Awake Time).

8:40 p.m.: Two or three more comics have gone by. They're really funny, the crowd is happy (the drinks helped, I"m sure), and the waitress zips by to ask us if we'd like our second round.

9:00 p.m.: Another comic, drinks arrive, and I just remembered I didn't have dinner. No problem, a basket of fries will hit the spot. I would have savored them so much more, if I had known this was the last food I was going to be seeing that day ...

9:50 p.m.: The drinks have run out, the fries basket is cleared away, the bill has arrived. Expensive, but I reason we've spent about 30 percent more here than we would have if we'd have gone to a movie, and we're going to be here for longer than a movie lasts. Much longer. Talk about cost effective -- I'm doing more with less.

10:00 p.m.: We're nearing our third hour of comedy. These guys are good: my sides, though not aching, are tender. My lips are dry from all my laughing. What a good time we're having and look! The comedians just keep coming.

10:10 p.m.: The waitress picks up the check and disappears back into the kitchen. This will be the last confirmed sighting of her by my party.

10:30 p.m.: I'm still laughing at the jokes but my lungs won't hold up to this punishment much longer. Though I try to keep my throat cool by sucking on ice cubes, the hot lights and dry air have melted my supply, and what was once a throaty chuckle has become a hoarse guffaw. People have been trickling out for the past hour, missing these funny comics. Idly I wonder why they don't stay to get their money's worth. Later, I realize that like animals before an earthquake, they sensed what was to come.

10:40 p.m.: As this avalanche of jokes continues to pile up, the quality seems to be dropping. These comedians are more cynical, bitter, and tend to make gratuitous body part jokes. The first jeer from a heckler in the audience echoes in the dark room. The crowd, shocked, ignores him and he settles again into his chair. But this is but an evil foreshadowing of things to come.

11:15 p.m.: Hecklers are gaining confidence, and my health continues to deteriorate, despite the lack of much to laugh at. At this point, two women enter the room and sit to the immediate right of the stage. They quickly become known as the Shrieking Harbingers.

11:30 p.m.: Another bad comedian, and I realize I haven't had feeling in my butt for half an hour. The Harbingers are obviously enjoying themselves. The comic on stage says "My sister and I ..." and already they're cackling like two witches from Snow White. One of them has a bad cough, from the sound of it, or perhaps is missing a lung.

11:40 p.m.: How many comics left? And where are they finding these humorists? Bowling alleys? Laundromats? Denny's? Suddenly, a new comic is introduced. His name, is Bob Zany, he smokes a cigar, and he has a grin on his face that says, "RUN!" He seems to know the Harbingers from old. My legs are too shaky to flee, so I sit stupefied, and he launches into his routine.

12:01 a.m.: A glorious new day, and still we sit, trapped by humor perverted to evil purposes. I fear for our lives.

12:09 a.m.: All those other comics had time limits. Perhaps he escaped from a cage, and the management wants to tire him out before they try to capture him. Perhaps they left with all the other guests and our waitress.

12:15 a.m.: I swear to God never to tell another joke in my entire life, if only I've allowed to leave this Inferno. Trapped in the smoke-filled room, I wonder what I would do differently if I had my life to live over again. Watch less "Cheers" and more PBS? Avoid Dave Barry books? I know even if I live, I'll never pun again.

12:21 a.m.: Time has lost all meaning. When Bob Zany finally releases the stage, I feel wooden and hollow. We stagger to our feet and stumble out into the misty night air.

I'm drained. I'm totally devoid of humor. I'm the poster boy for Night of the Living Dead.

* * *

I think I understand know why the Puritans were so straight-faced all the time. They knew what fate would befall them if they cracked a smile, smirked a smirk or, God forbid, chucked at a little physical comedy.