by Don Hall

Nikki Glaser makes a funny observation in her latest HBO special that struck me. She posits that both men and women list Sense of Humor as second in their most desirable traits when looking for love. She follows it up with the observation that the disconnect occurs because women want men who are funny and men want women who laugh at their jokes.

It's much funnier when she tells it but you knew that.

Comedian Andrew Schultz tells podcast host Bari Weiss that now, as the world is on fire, as the cultural divides are more acrimonious than they have been since the late 60s, is the best time for comedy. He continues by explaining that when everything is fine, comedy trends toward silly humor rather than biting observation. Flabby comedy is created in response to flabby times.

Misery loves company. It is the currency of our relentless glut of perceived victims in society. So much of our daily online discourse is like sitting in a room full of the elderly and infirm comparing pain.

"You think you have it bad? I'm on dialysis three times a week."

"Oh yeah? I'm blind in one eye and my hands are so arthritic I can't even use a TV remote."

"Ah. You got it easy. My granddaughter is insisting that she's 'nonbinary' and that I have to use her preferred pronouns."

Like Marvel films, the more that exist, the less fun they are. The more victims society creates, the less status being a victim accrues. Being aggrieved has become like Bitcoin—those who jumped on the train early are rocking and everyone else is playing catch-up. As with any MLM, the early adopters get the most payout and the rest fuel their reward while losing their homes in the process.

“Nothing is funnier than unhappiness, I grant you that. Yes, yes, it’s the most comical thing in the world.” -- Samuel Beckett

I recall a night when my second ex-wife and I decided to do some 'shrooms. For some reason, I decided we should watch one of my favorite comedies at the time, the Farrelly Brothers' Kingpin. We popped in the DVD, giggling at the gags we would soon be cracking up in response, ready to laugh at the misfortune of the one-armed bowler and his Amish protege traveling to defeat the hysterical Bill Murray.

It was a horror. Under the veil of our psychedelic haze, Kingpin transformed from scatological comedy into a tragedy of epic proportions. The tragic loss of Munson's hand, his lasting legacy of his name being forever associated with failure, his desperate attempt to live his each day with an ounce of elusive hope. Every gag suddenly felt at the expense of the characters. Punching down at those whom life has left with nothing but despair. Contrary to Beckett's assertion, this unhappiness was terrifying and laughing at it was callous and inhumane. I remember seeing Murray's hair in the final bowling battle and weeping uncontrollably.

How could I have ever seen this movie as funny? Sure, they're fictional characters but the tragic circumstances could only be funny to the most heinous of human beings. Was I tangentially responsible for their pain? Was my laughter like salt in their already shredded wounds? What kind of person am I to have so little empathy and compassion?

I haven't done 'shrooms nor watched Kingpin since that night. The lesson evolved a bit over time. Funny is a matter of perception and is, unless it's just silly or childlike, at the expense of someone else.

As I grew up, mom was a full-throated supporter of corporal punishment. No complaints here, I deserved every spanking I got. Raising me must have been a terror. At some point, her spankings didn't really hurt (she wasn't trying to hobble me but train me like a choke chain trains an unruly dog) but my response was to flail and cry with such high drama that, in my juvenile snake-brain, I thought the hysterics would minimize the punishment. I figured if she thought I was in extreme pain, she'd quit.

My mother found it incredibly funny. She knew I wasn't in that much pain, that my act was so exaggerated, such a performance, that she couldn't help but laugh while at the same time wholloping me with the belt. Thus, the image I have of my mother spanking me and cackling like a Disney villain. Soon enough she'd have a coat made from my flesh and a cigarette holder.

Today, I find myself much like my mother. The more melodramatic the pitch for recognition, the funnier it is. The key to living a less despairing, humorless life is to seek the comedy, not only in the theatrics of those positioning themselves as victims in a harsh world but also pulling my own head from my sphincter and laughing at myself. Living my life as if it were a comedy because, after all, it is.

Look around, gang. Irony abounds. Lunacy is everywhere. Hypocrisy, rather than an affront to the sense of self, is hysterical.

The Future is Female. Great slogan. Solid marketing. Right up until you hear Marjorie Taylor-Green say, well, anything. And then you gotta wonder about that future.

My most recent divorce (which is hysterical when a grown man can keep a tally of divorces like his golf score—maybe try a different game?) was brutal. BRUTAL. Since three days after the quickie dissolution, she lives less than twenty-five feet away from me. Now, that's funny.

I just now read a headline: "Why Republicans are So Obsessed with Trump." Scroll three headlines down and find yet another think piece about Trump being an existential threat to democracy. Obsessed people throwing shade at other obsessed people obviously obsessed with the exact same person? Priceless.

Inflation is causing families to have to choose between gas for their cars or food on their table all over the world. I'm concerned about my weight as I eat another brick of cheese while watching Netflix.

Robin DiAngelo, a wealthy white woman, is making millions of dollars telling other white people they are exactly as racist as she is. Meanwhile, Ibram X. Kendi is making millions writing children's books designed to tell white babies how racist they are cuz there is no end to white babies practicing white supremacy.

After years of judging twenty-year-olds living with their parents, tossing derision and vitriol at them like an old lady feeding pigeons on a London street, I will be moving in with my parents this fall. [Rimshot]

In response to JK Rowling's support of biological science, fictional women have renamed Quidditch, a fictional sport played with fictional broomsticks and fictional magical balls, 'Quadball' so they can pretend to play it and stick it to her at the same time.

The world is ridiculous. My life is just as open to mockery. Maybe that's the trade-off. If I can find myself to be a legitimate source of comedy, I get a pass on finding everyone else as a source of hilarity. Certainly, some things should be taken seriously but we live on a planet designed by nature to kill us and recycle our bodies for worms, so why spend the brief window of consciousness intentionally being miserable about it? Who benefits from the outrage and despair? Why not actively seek the comedy in yourself and the rest of the dysfunctional tribe?

A 2011 study referenced in Time examined a group of people's reactions to funhouse mirror images of themselves, and the findings revealed those who laughed most frequently at images of themselves showed "fewer signs of fake smiles or negative emotion." The study’s author, Ursula Beermann, Senior Lecturer at the Institute of Psychology at the University of Innsbruck, says the ability or proclivity not to take yourself too seriously also can mean you’re prepared to “acknowledge that you are not the center of the universe.”

Good to know because I'm pretty sure the center of the universe has no oxygen and in space, no one can hear you protest about your boutique cause or whine about your troubled existence.