What’s So Funny?

It has come to my attention that things I previously thought humorous – hysterically so in some cases – are no longer funny.  It goes without saying that making fun of others who are “different” in some manner should not be considered humorous.  Ditto for “dumb blonde” jokes.  But I was shocked to learn that sarcasm – a personal staple – is no longer funny.  I was informed that some people are actually offended by sarcasm.  Apparently they see themselves as the butt of the joke, even when the object of derision is clearly stated.

Okay, fine.  No more sarcasm.  I guess I’ll have to redefine what is and is not funny, much like I had to scramble to reconfigure my wardrobe when carpenter’s pants went passé.  Towards that end, I have come up with a list of things that are certifiably, undeniably funny:

* Farmers Only dot com commercials

* The audio of the phone call to a radio station from the woman who’d tried in vain to have the local authorities move the “Deer Crossing” signs to more secluded locations
* Kanye West taking himself seriously
* Drunks attempting to complete the simplest of feats; using an ATM, remembering the lyrics to Blurred Lines, or sending a text to their ex that isn’t total gibberish: “heyb dud juno I stiel lubj jue r u awek”
* Every campaign promise ever made
* Cats falling out of window sills and not landing on their feet
* Infomercials
* Blazing Saddles
* The midnight to 1 a.m. Karaoke line-up
* People misusing common phases, a la “for all intense purposes”
* Duckface selfies
* Politicians getting caught breaking the very laws they helped to enact
* Every high school yearbook photo more than 20 years old
* Women digging through their purses looking for their cell phone which is in their back pocket
 
Well that’s all I could come up with for now.  Next week: Things You Should Stop Putting Bacon On.

Franchises That Didn’t Make It

Are you still looking for a job?  Or, just really fed up with the one you have?  Do you dream of marching into the boss’ office and telling him to stick his crummy job in his ear?  Well, you’re in luck, because I have your solution: Franchising.

Franchising is easy.  Simply decide what type of business you want to own, get a second mortgage, cash out your 401K, and beg, borrow and steal every dime you can.  Oh, and get used to eating out of dumpsters for a while, because the average franchise doesn’t even begin to break even until the second or third year. 

But, make sure you do your homework, or you could end up stuck with one of these epic franchise faceplants:

* Broccoli on a Stick

* The OOPS Store
* Pay Somewhat Less Shoes
* Jiffy Lube and Enema
* Stoner Dudes Lawn Care Service
* Seattle’s Third or Fourth Best Coffee
* Kentucky Fried Groundhog
* Little Tykes Shooting Range
* Best Buy, Relatively Speaking
* Cockroach Barrel
* Bed, Bath and Dungeon
* Screw Nutrition Weight Loss Centers
* Not So Super Cuts
* Mistress Angelica’s Child Care
* Bermuda Triangle Cruise Lines
* Snake n’ Shake

I Am, Therefore I Write

Every once in awhile I like to step out from behind the curtain and write something first person. Long-time readers will know what I mean; it’s actually me, and not some persona I’ve invented to be the catalyst for whatever message I’m attempting to bore you with on that particular day.

So it is that on this particular day I’ve chosen to bore you with how I came to write.

First, I should present my credentials. Herewith is the sum and total of my qualifications: one creative writing class in 11^th grade. Yep, that’s it. We got dual grades; one for content and the other for grammar and punctuation, and I always got an A over a D minus. So, from a purely technical standpoint, I’m not qualified to do what I do. Sue me.

Not counting “required reading” in school, I probably haven’t read more than a couple hundred books in my lifetime. Which sounds like a lot, but really isn’t considering the number of years since I learned how to read. I’ve read Kurt Vonnegut and Erica Jong and Phillip Roth and Tom Clancy, and The Ballad of John and Yoko, and The Coming Crisis of Western Civilization, and a dozen or so books on astrophysics, but not a whole lot else.

My dry sense of humor can be attributed to Mad Magazine, which I devoured as a pre-teen, and National Lampoon some years later. I have 12 chapters of a novel I began writing at age 19 packed away in storage. Unfortunately, it’s three re-writes of the same four chapters. Or, maybe it’s four re-writes of the same three chapters; I don‘t remember exactly. I do, however, remember it not being very good.

Why do it then? What exactly is the point? Must there be a point?

I have no idea. I can tell you this: I do it because I like to do it. And, I suppose that should be enough. But that’s not the only reason I do it. I do it because my TV gets 957 channels and right now there’s nothing on I care to watch; because I couldn’t care less which YouTube video got the most views today; and because I believe that we as a society have lost our collective soul. I do it because I believe I have crested a hill, and on the down slope the view is much different, and I am nagged by the sense that if we do nothing else we should at least attempt to leave a footprint of some kind, for however long it lasts. If I were born 10,000 years earlier it would probably have been an etching of a bison on a cave wall.

So, I write. You can write too. Or, you can do something else, or - nothing at all. It really doesn’t matter.

Or, maybe it does.