There is something to be said about a sense of humor, specifically when it is appropriate versus when it is not. Who determines that? I don’t know, the fuzz? No, likely not the fuzz;  no, it’s those guys and girls who don’t like jokes.

But who doesn’t like jokes, you ask.

Who knows? We’re not talking about those people today. They can go back to their boring old statistical books and the manual of HOW TO KEEP ONESELF FROM UTTERING A CHUCKLE. Who’s it by? Oh, Anonymous. I can see why. Go ahead and put the pitchforks and the mob signs away, guys.

I like to think I have a sense of humor. Now, like all sense-of-humorists, I have my greatest hits and my burn outs; see, if I wanted to be most of the hair bands in the eighties, I’d have more of the latter than the former. But, I am not Cinderella, or her Twister Sister.

Like all good things, sometimes too much can be deadly. How do I mean? I can easily get away from myself, not like, “ewwww, get me away from me! He’s so disgusting and unfunny!” I mean losing sight of a stopping point and exhausting myself to the point where, when I’m laughing at my own jokes–what a doofus–I almost collapse out of tiredness.

Mostly it occurs at home–geez, I can a hear a British announcer for the Discovery Channel narrating that sentence–and least of all at school. I like to think I could spin a few doozies, hit a few home runs, squirt a few patties with ketchup, fill some cups with milk…how about I stop with that analogy? Yeah? Okay.

I must admit though, whenever we have a informational video streaming in class, it is a trial to shut my mouth and not say anything that might cause people to bust their guts laughing–just as long as it doesn’t come out the other end. I want get my MST3K on, know what I’m talking ’bout, people?

If you don’t that’s all right. That show was popular before I was born.

At home, of course, I get a few chuckles. I get a fart, too; but I don’t think that’s from me. Most times my family looks at me weird, then they do the “oh-we’ll-laugh-to-make-him-feel-good” bit, and go on back to their work and get onto me for lazing in the armchair in my underwear and skimming through a knock-knock book for ten year olds.

C’mon, you can’t believe that. I am an advanced sense-of-humorist. Who uses knock-knock books when there’s all these yo-mamma pamphlets circulating the corners at my local elementary school?

Yo mamma so hungry, she–

Johnathan Alexander Whitby! Finish coloring your math homework!

Yes ma’am…[in a whisper] she eats the stick off a corn dog.

Poor Jonathan Alexander Whitby, cursed with a terrible name created by mua.

It could have been worse. It could have been–

Think daily,

A Southpaw