Sunday, January 28, 2018

My Questionable Sense of Humour

Anyone who knows me well will be all too familiar with the kind of jokes I throw out there. Your blank stares and pitying sighs notwithstanding, I know that y'all truly appreciate them and wish to encourage me in my quest for the perfect knee-slapper. My favourite part is the delayed reaction as what I've just said percolates through and you realize that, “Hey, he's trying to be funny.” I live for it.
I suppose it may have something to do with the gypsy existence I led for the first part of my life. Our family moved around a fair bit thanks to my dad's government job, and the longest we stayed anywhere was about four years. This meant that I was frequently the new kid in town and had to figure out ways to make contact with like-minded individuals. A good joke is sometimes an excellent ice-breaker, and I made a point of collecting a few favourites to drop into conversations. The main problem with this approach is that, after I had thrown down some of my best stuff, all too often I would be rewarded with some sort of “Little Johnny” joke; contrived, filthy, and seldom funny. Worse yet, a grossly racist and sexist “Rastus” or blonde joke. It was through repeated disappointments that I came up with a few short one-liners that were so weird that only the most discerning individual would attempt to respond. Most people would just chuckle uncomfortably and begin to sidle away.
I met a kindred spirit this way when Curt, who I had only just met, said, “I saw the Buddha running a hot-dog stand, so I said, 'Make me one with everything.'” And we were off. We pulled together some exceedingly odd “Finder” jokes and generally made nuisances of ourselves honing them carefully for maximum effect. Example: Jean-Paul Sartre sat down at a cafĂ©. When the waiter asked if he'd like anything, he responded, “I think not.” Then disappeared. (I told that one wrong for an embarrassingly long time.)
Once, I said to a guy at the bar, “ You know what the white stuff is in chicken shit?... It's still chicken shit.” His response took me somewhat aback. “ Actually, it's uric acid,” he said, and explained in exquisite detail the excretory functions of birds and their differences from mammals. I knew that this was someone I could spend some time with.
So the next time I drop one of my painfully convoluted puns into the conversation, stopping it cold, I'm just on the lookout for a connection.

1 comment:

  1. So funny!! But I confess.... I had to listen to a crash course on existentialism!!! .. for the Sartre example.

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