I tried to integrate this thing with Facebook and Twitter, but it turns out I have to have a paid account in order to do so. And until you and the iPhone can justify your respective expenses, I’m not going to be shelling out for either of you.
I’m a big fan of humor. Probably anyone who says otherwise to you is secretly dead inside. But over the past weekend, when I was road-tripping with my friends back to my alma mater to see the baby of our triumvirate of musical theatre prowess graduate, I realized that I haven’t been thinking about it as much in the past year as I did before that.
There was a lot of funny business in the car, with seven hours to and from my college. We listened to the “Book of Mormon” soundtrack on the way to Minnesota and each pointed out the moments we thought were funniest, came up with epic medieval tweaks on Middle America, opined wittily about marriage, and listened to Eddie Izzard, Louis C.K., and Donald Glover. Then today, I watched the Bo Burnham special on Comedy Central. And I thought, Huh. I used to be funny.
Hyperbole is humorous, isn’t it? I know that I’m still the same person who wrote a patter song about deconstruction theory and took improv classes and gained an incredible 2,344 hits on YouTube with her stand-up material (actually I don’t know how that happened, and it may be a marker of quality that the second part of my act has 311 views). But I haven’t been putting much thought or effort into being funny in a little while. I don’t count this blog because frankly it’s not an impressive enough effort.
So this is a short post, as I sleep off my summer cold and sunburn and try to think of ways to claim the funny again. My guitar skills are slowly coming along, and maybe I’ll try writing a song or two. If they’re worth anything at all I’ll let you know. Or maybe I’ll write a series of jokes about my ex-wife. You know, something really unexplored. If you have ideas for funny little projects, I’m all ears.
Unless you want a parody of the “Friday” song, in which case I’ll find where you live and your eardrums will sit back on the porch and long for the days when they remained unperforated.