The End of the World is a Humorless Affair
Seven days until now.
No turning back. Humanity was in trouble. Everyone agreed. There was only one way to save the human race. A rebirth. The scientists talked of a phoenix. A resurrection. A grand miracle. What they unleashed would be far worse than anything they could have possibly imagined.
Eric had studied the classics. He was a sponge for cold sentences written by dead men. Eric could recite every book ever written down to the finite detail. But Eric’s greatest gift was his recent learning of how to be human from a textbook.
First written in 1929 by a German keen on evolving the species, the book listed from one semiotic symbol to another. Page after page, in graphic detail, the author attempted meaningful communication via everyday signs. He hoped, by the end of the book, man would have learned how to be more humane.
Eric, despite suffering from hyperthymesia syndrome, read the book 191 times. On the 192nd reading, Eric confirmed with an elaborate series of tests, that he had perfected how to be human. Five pages from the end, Eric died suddenly from a brain aneurysm.
Five days until now.
Nothing more awkward than a lonely man sitting on a bench expecting to be fed. Thomas, dubbed the spanking Bishop by the tabloids at the height of his fame, was hungry. He had waited for redemption but all he possessed was one stale scone and half a cup of bitter milk.
Thomas could feel the hunger pains deep inside. They growled late into the night. Thomas believed demons lived within his body. It was punishment for his participation in creating the Adam Bomb. The scientists were delighted to have a Priest on their board until they found him in a Men’s toilet spanking his bishop.
When an ill-suited man decided to sit next to Thomas on the bench, laden with choice cuts of meat and a fistful of cheese, Thomas licked his lips in anticipation. Before Thomas could partake in the feast, the man leaned in and whispered to him the secret of humanity.
Ten seconds later, the man died from a brain aneurysm.
Three days from now.
Catherine had never laughed so hard. She couldn’t stop. It was only after she could feel the warm spread of urine on her pants that Catherine finally drew breath.
As she sat staring at the mess, contemplating her bladder's unfortunate side effect to laughter, a large man stood before her. He was blocking her sun and he smelled like moldy cheese and rotten carcass. She would’ve moved if it wasn’t for the large stain on her pants and chose an alternative course of action. Yelling at strangers is what Catherine was good at but in this case, the man refused to be cowered.
“The world will be humorless.” “What?” “This shall be the last time you piss your pants in laughter, Catherine.” “Wha…how do you know my name? Who are you?” “I have learned how to be human from an automaton carrying a textbook.” “Fuck off. Go on. Leave me the fuck alone you grotesque fucker. Go away.” “Tomorrow you shall laugh last.”
Catherine never laughed so hard again.
Yesterday.
Launched at midnight, the virus rapidly spread around the world. Its function was to affect a certain part of the brain. Once inhaled, the brain promptly shuts down the system that controls humor. In a pandemic that was no laughing matter, the humorless took over the world.
Those gifted to be joyless, smug in their ability to have no sense of humor, were immune to the virus. Ironically, they were contagious with laughter when they heard everybody on the planet share their singular trait for fun.
It didn’t take long for the Republicans to elect a leader who would become a humorless President.
By the end of the decade, the far right had Prime Ministers in over a dozen influential countries. Each as joyless as the other. Laughter was outlawed. Those attempting to crack a joke were hunted down and executed in public. Comedians became extinct.
The scientists talked of resurrection. A rebirth for humanity. A level playing field where charisma could no longer help you succeed. What they unleashed proved to be far worse than anything they could have possibly imagined.
Today.
Ecclesiastes 7:6 “Like the crackling of thorns under the pot, so is the laughter of fools. This too is meaningless.”
