Summary

The author expresses a deep concern over losing their sense of humor after a nightmare where they performed unfunny 90s-style comedy, leading to a day of finding humor in typically unfunny sitcoms and a general inability to produce their usual wit.

Abstract

The author recounts a distressing experience where they awoke from a nightmare in which they were a 90s comedian telling hackneyed jokes to an audience with outdated fashion sense. Despite the terror of the dream, the author found themselves laughing at the jokes, which was out of character for them. This incident triggered a day-long struggle to reconnect with their usual sharp sense of humor. They attempted to watch their favorite sitcoms and even resorted to less sophisticated humor, but nothing seemed to work. The author's discomfort was compounded by finding humor in shows they typically disliked, such as "Two and a Half Men," and their inability to laugh at real-life humorous situations. A trip to the grocery store and an attempt to write comedy themselves also failed to reignite their humor. The author's desperation led them to call friends and family for help, but even this did not restore their wit. The experience has left the author questioning their identity and considering drastic measures, such as living in a cave or joining a silent religious order.

Opinions

The author believes that their sense of humor is a fundamental part of their identity and coping mechanism.
They express a strong dislike for the type of humor they performed in the nightmare, which they describe as being sent "from hell."
The author typically enjoys satirical and witty humor, as evidenced by their preference for shows like "Schitt’s Creek" and "It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia."
They have a negative opinion of the humor in "Two and a Half Men" and "Full House," finding it inane and soul-hurting under normal circumstances.
The author is deeply disturbed by their inability to produce or appreciate their usual brand of humor, considering it a personal crisis.
They fear that losing their sense of humor would lead to an empty, lifeless existence.
The author's self-deprecating humor is evident throughout the piece, particularly when they recount their failed attempts to laugh at candy-licking toddlers or engage in banter with a grocery store cashier.
The author values the support of friends and family in their time of crisis but is also critical of themselves for not living up to their own humorous standards.

I’VE LOST MY SENSE OF HUMOR AND MY WORLD

Why I Fear I’ve Lost My Funny

My world crumbled and I laughed at Network TV humor

I laughed at a pineapple. With sunglasses. Photo by Polina Zimmerman. Pexels.

Last night, I awoke from a horrifying nightmare. Tangled in my sweat-soaked sheets, I struggled to catch my breath. The REM scene felt so real.

I dreamed I was a 1990s comedian. I donned a terrible bobbed haircut and wore a suit jacket with shoulder pads. The jacket was fuchsia, and I had rolled up the sleeves. I paced around a stage, and I noticed I also wore cuffed jeans.

The terror was enough to snap me out of sleep, but my mind refused to wake up. I needed to watch the whole scene play out. I had a sizable audience — full of guys with frosted tips and women with “Rachel hair.” My interest piqued, and I allowed the dream to unfold.

The words that streamed from my mouth were sent from hell.

“Ladies, what’s up with men and their sports? Emmirite?”

My consciousness chocked back a scream. My dream self laughed at the appalling joke, and shockingly, so did my audience.

“And remote controls?” I continued. “Like, my fella has seven remote controls. He even has a remote to turn on his other remotes. Crazy! Emmirite?”

Oh, God. Please save me, I thought.

I thought this was funny. See, it’s a pineapple — with sunglasses! Mwahaha. Ha. God help me! Photo by Elena Cordery on Unsplash

I screamed myself awake and then sobbed. What if my nightmare proved prophetic? I hadn’t gobbled down Mexican food before bed. I didn’t fall asleep to a supernatural horror film. From where could this darkness stem?

Long before I became a hundredaire to a thousandaire from writing humor, I clung to all things funny. Gallows humor became a coping mechanism.

I could find satire and wit behind the darkest corners. My humor kept me going when I wanted to accept defeat. I would live as an empty, lifeless shell if I lost this ability.

As the post-nightmare day progressed, the terror continued to cling to my soul. I felt off, somehow. The brilliant satire ideas I’d possessed the day before had blown into the wind. No matter what I tried, I couldn’t find my humor.

I watched ‘Two and a Half Men’

My nightmare left me fatigued and achy, so I camped out in my bed until noon. McSweeney’s and SNL could wait another day for my pitches. I switched on the television and found myself scrolling past Schitt’s Creek and It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia — two of my favorite sitcoms.

I landed on Two and a Half Men, and before I could stop myself, I turned up the volume.

“Nooooo!” I barked at my TV.

On a normal day, the long-running series’s inane lines and situational comedy hurt my soul. But today, I laughed at a line from Charlie Sheen.

I began to rend my pajamas and I pulled out my hair. And still, I laughed.

I decided to scroll through platform humor, hoping to find a stellar piece to break my humorless leanings. I read “The Five Major Differences Between Men and Women as told by a Hamster.” I couldn’t stop myself. Before I knew it, I’d highlighted the whole story. I clapped 50 times and left a comment.

“Genius humor!” my cloying comment read.

I feared what I’d become.

I turned my TV back on and watched an entire episode of the original Full House.

“Those Olsen twins are hysterical!” My crumbling mind reflected. “And Uncle Jesse — oh man, the comedic timing with this guy.”

I didn’t like this new me — I wondered if I could survive the day.

Escaping the house

I willed myself to jump on my laptop and write a comedy piece.

“You know you’re over thirty when,” my story began. I screamed and threw my computer against the wall.

Maybe I could find my funny if I left the house. Most of my local restaurants and bars had closed due to overwhelming Omicron Variant cases, so the grocery store was my only option. I roamed the aisles of Safeway and wondered if I was possessed. Perhaps a humorless demon snatched my soul as I slept?

I watched a toddler pick up candy from the racks and lick each bag. I didn’t even giggle. I found myself disgusted by the kid germs spread and shook my head at him.

A mullet-haired man in footie pajamas walked in front of me — nada, not even a smile.

I opted for a checkout line with a cashier, hoping banter could snap me out of my despair. After I paid, I lingered. The cashier asked if he could get me anything else.

I said, “A winning lotto ticket!” and laughed.

I hated myself.

I called my mom and cried for help. Although understanding of my plight, she took twenty minutes to tell me a thirty-second joke and ruined the punchline. I laughed until I cried and asked Mom if I could share the joke.

Breathless, I called Hogan Torah and recited the awful bit.

“I don’t even know who you are anymore,” he said. “Please lose my number.”

Yes, I fear I’ve lost my funny, and I don’t know how to cope. If I remain in this terrible state, I don’t deserve to live among people. I’m currently looking for a spacious cave with excellent wi-fi where I can live out my days. I may join a religious order and take a vow of silence.

I am so sorry to all who I’ve hurt through my struggles. And I’ll leave you with this:

Men and their video games. Also, beer! Emmirite, ladies?

Please. Somebody. Save me.

*Click here for more humor attempts from Sarah Paris