My heart has a boner for funny people. I want to take a dip in them. I want to take a desperate-housewife-with-minxy-pool-boy dip in them. I want to double dip my carrot in them. I have often found myself throwing my head back in laughter, placing a flirtatious hand on their shoulder, and coyly asking, “So how come you’re so funny?” I lean in close until our noses barely touch. I stare them straight in the eye and cajole: “Tell me your secret.” At this point, they usually flick me in the nip and run away. Then I trap them under my heel and play “Stop hitting yourself, stop hitting yourself!” ‘til they cave and give me an explanation. These are their stories:
Reason 7: I didn’t get my first blowie ’til I was seven.
No sex. Too much sex. Not enough sex. Sex too early. Sex too late. Sex when you don’t want it. Bad sex when you do. Maybe your mom left her doctoral charts on erectile dysfunction lying around the kitchen table. Maybe you grew up on a farm and were forced to engage in mindless jackrabbit humps with the neighborhood one-tooth in order to break up the monotony of endless cornfields. Or maybe you were left out of the orgy in college. You cried as your roommate dismissively explained that there just wasn’t enough room in the octagon: “No, I’m sorry. Back Left is already taken.” Whatever the story, it probably didn’t take long for you to figure out that sexual disappointments, whether of the too small or too unwashed variety, are a dish best served up funny. Humor can distract from inexperience, make up for inadequacies, and entice potential conquests. Given the choice, it’s always better to channel one’s sexual frustrations on stage, with a mic, instead of in bed, on someone’s face. Well, mostly always.
Reason 6: My dad divorced my housekeeper ’cause he was having an affair with my mom.
No one’s sitting around the dinner table loving you. Dad’s off at the cuckolds while mom squanders your inheritance. It’s the pits, I know. I don’t know, but I can imagine. So you call the Ghostbusters, have a drink with Bill, let him smack you around like you’re his wife, and cope with your family’s instability by being the Harold Ramis to his hilarious.
Reason 5: I’m Mayor, First Lady, and vicar of Lonely Town.
Let’s be honest. We’re all on Twitter and Facebook ‘cause they’re the most crowded places for our loneliness to fester. It’s our way of making friends without really being friends. Nothing quickens the heart quite like RTs and likes, or as I call them, hugs from a distance. We’ve become accustomed to this readily available, detached form of intimacy, and our craving for it has turned us all into observational comedians.
Reason 4: My parents had a freak accident with a broom when I was little. Dad still won’t cum out of the closet.
Family dysfunction is the life force of la comédie. I love when my brother walks into holiday parties and teases my aunt: “Seriously asshole, with those boobs?” Almost any oddity will suffice. Boxed wine. Pugs in a stroller. Antique finds that’ll “shrink your dick.” Coincidentally, these can also double as flirty names for nail polish, so you’ve got options.
Reason 3: I used to spend a lot of time at the zoo, as a hippo.
A VIP member of The Overeaters Club. It has its perks. The triumph of digging through a trashcan for hastily discarded pizza crusts, only to find your misplaced car keys. The freedom in spooning a jar of frosting with no regard for cupcake liaisons. The joy of filling your emotional hole with sweaty hot dogs from that Seven Eleven rotisserie of low points. But once you emerge from your food paralysis, guilt and self-loathing settle in for the night. You make jokes to distract others from how you look, and to distract yourself from how you feel. It’s as if a little gnome in your head cries out: “If you’re a’fatty, be a’funny!” (He’s Italian, and not wearing pants.) Making people laugh gives you a free pass to eat whatever you want, however, whenever, and in the largest do-I-have-something-on-my-face quantities possible.
Reason 2: My mom died a lot.
Yea. Well. This one. I like to focus on the absurdity –- I got a bunch of flowers at my dad’s funeral, and then they died. Like my dad. When all you want to do is crawl into a hole and weep out your innards, sometimes the best thing is a good batch of friends, a vodka IV drip, and a sh-t ton of laughter.
Reason 1: Sarah Silverman broke my heart.
We can’t all be Dave Attell. But as anyone who has ever been hurt by love will tell you, sarcasm goes a long way toward mending a broken heart, or dealing with bad relationships. I mean, I love when my boyfriend whispers in my ear, “On average, I don’t give a f-ck about you.” The point is, we had so much in common once I adopted all of his interests! What I’m really trying to say is that the only thing that finally gets me out of bed at night is the thought of a bunch of people having sex without me.