I’m desperate to be funny. I mean, really, really desperate. I’m willing to stoop to bathroom humor. Okay, maybe I just think small penis jokes are hilarious Maybe I’m dramatically overcompensation. No matter the reality of it, though, I am desperately trying to make you laugh.
Because I’m not funny.
I’m mopey. I’m anxious. I’m depressing, and worst of all, I’m not even really that good at that.
I’m completely unwilling to cover myself from head-to-toe in black leather and caked-on white makeup.
How selfish am I?
If someone asked me what I want to be when I grow up, I’d say Dave Barry. I was once asked why I set the bar at Dave Barry and not Mark Twain? Didn’t I want to be remembered for hundreds of years as a humorist?
I replied, resplendently elated to answer this question, “I’m already over shooting, aiming for Dave Barry. I’m kinda hoping I can bank off the dumpster and ricochet into at least some S.J. Perelman territory.”
If you don’t know who S.J. Perelman is, that’s okay. You’ve earned a wonderful chance to google something today.
I keep trying to make you laugh, though, because I’ve convinced myself that making people laugh is easier than making them cry, but both will one day make me an important writer. I think the measure of how important a writer becomes is based entirely on how many bodily fluids he can evacuate from his audience.
Making one person laugh until they pee a little is worth way more than bringing a couple of tears to everyone’s eye. It’s just a matter of volume, and I like those odds.
I also figured out that if I spend enough time making jokes at my expense, I get bored with being depressed. It’s incredibly dull anyway, and if you make it completely routine, well, it will drive you to tears.
See, that was a bad joke. I should be punished for writing that.
Still, I am desperate to make people around me laugh. It’s a driving, addictive force. I’m not afraid to admit that I’ve basically replaced the part of my brain that craves powerful chemical stimulants with the sounds of being laughed at.
What can I say, I don’t need positive re-enforcement, just endless amounts of constant attention and utter, overwhelming devotion!
So, maybe I resorted to a penis joke. Isn’t blue humor just a bit better than really crude diarrhea humor?
Because I swear to you, that’s where I’m going next. If I can’t get a good laugh with this, I’m going to crap and fart jokes as far as the eye can see. There will be miles of ’em.
Don’t think I won’t pull that trigger.
I’m desperate, remember?
Tags: Dave Barry, Humour, Joke, Mark Twain, Writing