I’ve been having a very difficult time writing comedy lately. I suspect it might have something to do with the fact that, for the first time in many years I’m actually somewhat happy. At present, my personal life isn’t a series of adolescent comedies and tragedies through which my married friends occasionally get to live vicariously. I go to bed feeling OK, even though I know the terrorists will mustard gas my apartment building any evening now.
I’m going a little crazy, trying to develop new ideas until they become funny to the point of satisfaction. Unfortunately, now that they’re not borne of sadness I’m having a much harder time articulating them – perhaps because my focus is often diverted by a new desire to smell tulips or demand that a butterfly alight on my fingertips. Here’s an example: I am going to share something I just put together in anticipation of an upcoming comedy show. As I was assembling stuff for a “bit” (I hate that word, and therefore I’m going to belittle it with cute quotation marks. Take that!) in which I educate the audience on how to advertise things to teenagers, I created this image and found it, personally, incredibly funny. Now, a few minutes late I sort of cannot believe I’m about to display this in front of a room full of strangers. Check it out.
Is this even remotely funny to anyone but me? What is wrong with me? Tell me now.
Addendum: I was so committed to that stupid image that I actually went back and worked on it. I’m so, so sorry.
