Lost and Never Found
The other day I went looking for my sense of humor. I searched everywhere I could think of. I looked in all the closets, checked under the laundry, dug through cabinets and behind the sink, under the beds, in drawers I hadn’t opened in years. Nothing. It had to be here somewhere, it couldn’t have wandered off on its own. I’m sure I just put it down absent mindedly and walked off so if I retraced my steps, maybe I would run into it.
It’s been a few days and I’ve been to the studio, the shop, the woodsheds, back on the trails, down to the beach. Nothing. Not a trace, not even the shadow of a smile. It’s been raining nearly constantly lately and I’m worried I left it outside where it’s shrunk down to something small enough for the slugs to slime over, something I might not even want to find much less use again, just some icky sog of a remnant nobody would recognize.
The shortest day of the year is coming up and I really need to find that funny bone. The sun comes up about noon and starts sinking immediately, the rain drips off our clogged gutters, the storms keep blowing down trees in the back 40 and the news is too bleak to listen to anymore … at least without that lost sense of humor. I checked on E-bay to see if maybe someone had stolen mine and now was selling it, used, slight wear, free shipping. Not only didn’t I find mine, I didn’t find anyone offering a reasonable replacement.
Although, someone from Wisconsin had one for sale. “Funny bone, never used, won’t be needing it. Voted Trump. Best offer.” Bidding started at $25 with a $250 shipping charge. I noticed it had yet to get a single bid even though it had been listed since the election. The idea of an unused, nearly new sense of humor was seriously tempting. And at this point of desperation the exorbitant price was almost acceptable. But I’m going to hold out for one that’s more tried and true. That one from Wisconsin, I bet it’s dark and mean spirited. You know, if it even works. I worry that its idea of funny is to belittle and bully, then laugh out loud at the victim’s misery. Just make fun of others who are different, whose religion isn’t the same, who have a disability. I’m not sure how much I’d be willing to pay for that. At least not yet.
Meanwhile, I’m going to keep looking for mine. It’s got to be here somewhere. I just worry if I don’t locate it soon, if I find it after prolonged inactivity, it’ll be like my flashlight batteries, pretty much dead. Inauguration Day is coming right up. I’m going to need to find it before then. That, or buy the one on E-bay and take my chances.
Hits: 118
“Funny bone, never used… Voted Trump. Best offer.”
That listing sounds more like a phishing scam from Nigeria, rather than a legit offer from Wisconsin. Somethings off, it has the whiff of deception. First of all, you’d almost certainly need to use a sense of humor if you voted for Trump. Granted, a somewhat bizarre sense of humor, but how else could you pull the lever for him without one? You’ve gotta be thinking just like Trump himself, “the jokes on you, suckers!”
Second, if a person did vote Trump without comic intent, it would suggest the seller found humor unnecessary for anything else in his life, which means the thing’s most likely always been busted, cracked, or missing essential components in and among the inner workings, rendering it useless from the get go.
I’d keep looking close to home, around the yard, and in the corners of the house. I think deep down you probably suspect along with the rest of us, that it’d be nearly impossible to find a substitute for your original sense of humor.
Well, I know you’re right, this Wisconsin guy, hey, we lived in that Dairy State a long time and how many people with a sense of humor did we meet? Three, in my case. I spoze the rest might’ve just bartered or sold theirs, but the odds are long that I’d buy one of the only 3 funny bones still available. Nobody’s laughing in Wisconsin, I can tell you. At least not among my friends. They’re recounting the vote even now, but that’s a joke. The Election Commission won’t be looking at the machine software and refuses to count paper ballots. If I had my sense of humor back, I’d laugh myself sick.
Only thing you can do and gotta do is fake a funny bone for us all if not for yourself. I can’t forward dark, lost Diaries of Skeeter Daddle to depressed liberals. No, they need help, your help!
So you gotta fake a Funny Bone and write for us lost souls. Pretend the Band is on the Titanic–oh well, you get the idea.
Feel free if need be to tilt a Jubleale for me. I wrote in despair to Deschuttes Brewery but haven’t heard back.
Faking a funny bone is a lot like faking an orgasm, I guess it’s a bone you throw your partner, no pun intended, but if you make a habit of it, the gesture becomes sad. I’m going to keep looking, maybe quit the news-avoidance since that isn’t making any difference. It’s gotta turn up. If not, maybe a transplant.