Dear Mr. Melissa Blake:
Aardvark a million miles for one of your smiles.
Are you laughing?
Sometimes it takes awhile to find your funny bone, Sweetpea. That's one thing you should know about me because, well, let's just say that I was a rather late bloomer when it came to the world of comedy. I was no Tina Fey, trust me. Apparently, I was born without a funny bone – or a funny hip or a funny arm or even a funny spleen. My body is literally devoid of funniness.
It takes a certain kind of person to tell a certain kind of joke, doesn't it? There's the Three Stooges approach to jokes. My father was a big fan of this one. Every year without fail, he brought out his prized Whoopee Cushion (that he bought at one of MY elementary school carnivals). He'd discretely place it on a chair or on the couch and stand in wait for the unsuspecting victim to flatten it with their fanny. My mother usually fell victim to these pranks, and the day usually ended with my mother giving him some sort of lecture about etiquette as though he were an errant school boy.
Then there are those long-winded jokes that resemble more of a story than an actual quick knee-slapper. My mother usually wins the prize for these jokes, and thanks to her sometimes absent memory, interjects a lot of "Oh wait, that's not right" or "Now how did it go...?" Somehow after 15 minutes of these shenanigans, we all lost interest.
My sister, bless her sweet little heart, is the champion of the unintentional joke, a statement meant in all seriousness to the person speaking, but leaves those on the receiving end doubled over in stitches. For proof, just ask her about a certain telephone book listing in Iowa which she mistakenly read as "Spruce Hills Dr. (she read Dr. as doctor) Bettendorf." She's still looking for that doctor, but she can't seem to find him on Spruce Hills Drive. Go figure.
I suppose it equally takes a certain type of person to appreciate a joke. I've never experienced the thrill that comes with those types of jokes that send your belly into bouts of bubbly rumblings, that give your knee a slight bruise from all that slapping or even the kind that leave tiny tear drops cascading down your cheeks. I'm the either laughing just so I'm not the only fool in the room or covering my mouth so others don't notice that I'm indeed yawning instead of smiling. It is indeed a hard life for us outside the Jokester's Circle. We want to spontaneously chuckle. We want to genuinely laugh. At the very least, we want our clever remarks to be met with more than a blank, pathetic stare.
While I wait for that glorious day to come, I continue to search for my missing funny bone. Do let me know if you find the little rascal, Sweetpea. What is your sense of humor like? I can't wait to find out...and I can't wait to laugh endlessly with you. Until we meet... xoxo
P.S. If you are confused over the Bettendorf bumbling, well, then that demonstrates my lack of joke telling skills. My mission is complete.
[Photos via We Heart It]