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That Joke Isn’t Funny Anymore

This weekend I told a joke and was forced, for THE FIRST TIME NEARLY EVER, to grapple with an “I don’t get it” response. Apparently, it is my wont to rudely ogle my jokee and imply full blame via the repetition of, “What do you mean? How can you not get it,” until they feel horribly, horribly stupid. But first they try to get all indignant like some shortcoming in my joke-telling skills has prevented them from getting it. As if.

Is that post-holiday blues I feel or just the unhappy pulsing of my engorged liver? Over the last several days I have done entirely too much of the following:

- Riding my bike aimlessly around city streets, no destination, no whither to my whether;

- Drinking;

- Drinking and saying stupid things;

- Driving my car aimlessly around city streets (while sober, kids); smoking; listening to the latest Her Space Holiday album (hiccup—boy, is it sad and pretty…);

- Smoking;

- Planning aimlessly. It is harder than you might think to construct your future around no real compunction to do one thing more than another.

I don’t get it. Stop looking at me like that.


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