Summary

The author, P.G. Barnett, reflects on the challenge of writing humorously, despite the pressure and self-doubt, and the inspiration drawn from other humorous writers.

Abstract

P.G. Barnett discusses the struggle of writing humor, comparing the pressure to not release the steam from an Instapot correctly. Despite admiring other writers who handle humor with ease, Barnett acknowledges the difficulty of maintaining the same level of wit and poise. The author draws a parallel between the pressure of humor writing and the inconvenience of tire blowouts, emphasizing the ease with which other writers seem to navigate humorous content. Barnett humorously recounts a blood donation experience in Transylvania and the misadventure of using pigeons instead of the mythical Eagles of Manwë for transportation. The piece concludes with Barnett's determination to overcome self-doubt and embrace the humorous side of writing, encouraged by the ability of other writers to find humor in everyday situations.

Opinions

The author believes that writing humor is a pressured endeavor, akin to the potential disaster of mishandling an Instapot or experiencing a tire blowout.
P.G. Barnett expresses admiration for fellow writers who excel at humor, performing their craft with style and poise.
The author humorously laments the inability to find mythical solutions (like the Eagles of Manwë) to real-world problems, suggesting a whimsical approach to challenges.
Barnett recognizes the innate ability of some writers to see the humor in almost any situation, including potentially serious contexts like church sermons.
The piece conveys a self-deprecating tone, with the author poking fun at their own experiences and shortcomings in humor writing.
Ultimately, Barnett is optimistic about their own potential to write humorously, encouraging themselves to push through self-doubt and just do it.

Really — I Can Actually Do Funny

Until I Start Believing I Can’t

Y’all remember that line from Billy Joel’s iconic song Piano Man that goes, “and he’s quick with a joke and a light of your smoke, but there’s someplace that he’d rather be”?

Well, I think most days it pretty much spells out my disposition d*mned well. Not the joke part, the someplace I’d rather be. Here’s something about myself you may not know.

I can do funny, I’m always quick with a joke. Until I actually try to be funny, until I start believing I can’t be funny. And then, well, the sh*t goes sideways fast, and there’s always someplace I’d rather be. Like back to being P.G., noted scholar and purveyor of the most cultured emotionally ravaged trash the world has ever read.

And yet, I still keep trying to be funny.

Frankly, there are a ton of writers here who write some pretty d*amned funny stuff. They do funny with ease. What’s difficult for us to bring across they do it with style and poise.

Think style and poise like being engaged in a log rolling contest, typing out some hilarious tome with one hand while juggling three cats, a full martini glass (with two olives), and a laptop with the other.

That kind of ease.

I keep trying to do that kind of funny. Well, not the martini part. I don’t care too much for olives. I want to be funny, have “funny” running through my veins.

Especially since my last blood donation in Transylvania didn’t entirely turn out like I thought it would. Who knew giving blood in Transylvania was a contact sport?

I think the reason I struggle so much with humorous pieces is, it’s a pressure thing. You know, like when you forget to release all the pressure on your Instapot? And you think the little red stem still being in the up position is merely a suggestion? And you savagely twist at the lid until it comes off and steam scalds your stomach through your shirt?

Yeah, that kind of pressure.

Or when you overfill one of your tires with too much pressure, and it blows, and you don’t have a spare, and you have to drive fifteen miles on the rim to get to a tire store? Why are tire stores always fifteen miles or more away from where you blow out a tire?

Anyway, that kind of pressure.

I have to tell you, folks, these writers, these funny brothers and sisters of mine either don’t have an Instapot (or have at least memorized the instructions), or they have the God-given sense to carry a spare in the boot of the car, or walk, or ride the train, or bicycle or a bus.

Some of them may have trained Eagles of Manwë to take them where they need to go.

I don’t know where they got ’em folks. I couldn’t find a Manwë store anywhere in the freaking metroplex. Oh, and substitutions don’t work very well either, trust me.

Pigeons captured from downtown Fort Worth or Dallas sure don’t. All they wanted to do was crap all over my truck and squawk when I tried to sit on them.

But I would imagine the only pressure these excellent humor writers experience is not necessarily how to be funny — after reading their work I can tell they have that down pat — but how to see the humor in something they want to write about.

Now that, as they say, is a horse of another color. No, I wasn’t trying to be funny with that statement.

What? Oz who? The Wizard of Oz? Was he funny? Why in the heck would you think a wizard is funny?

Ahem.

Back to what I was saying before someone decided to step out from behind a curtain and smack talk me about the colors of horses.

Most of these funny writers see the humor in almost everything around them. These are the writers who burst out laughing in church when the pastor says something about the sins of sleeping with evil fornicators.

They’re the ones who stand up and say, “well, he/she certainly loved it last night.”

Hey, three-ways happen, folks. I’m not necessarily condoning, I’m just sayin’.

They’re also the ones who get escorted from the sanctuary by a pair of burly guards who pose as ushers on Sunday, but in reality, work for Vinnie and the Donelly brothers’ mob as “escorts.”

They’re the ones who continue cracking lines from the movie My Cousin Vinnie, “these two utes are innocent your honor” and howling with laughter as the brute brothers drag them out.

These are the humorists who manage to discover the quirky, the hilarious, the obscenely outrageous things about everyday life and twist and choke them until the funny falls out.

And I know I can do it. I know I can do funny. I just need to stop it with the pressure, stop doubting myself and believe, and when I think I can, just do it.

I may not as good as a lot of humorists here. Maybe I can only get a chuckle or two, but it’s a start.

For the rest of those hilarious writers at one with their funny bones, when they get wound up, they have everyone who reads them peeing in their pants with laughter.

Just a suggestion here. If you don’t own a washer and dryer before you read them, you better see how far it is to the laundromat. I’m willing to bet it’s probably fifteen miles.

Peace Out My Writing Sisters And Brothers,

P.G.

Thanks So Much For Reading

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