Can we not hold it against ourselves
when we hold ourselves against others?
The other may be rather fond of such
mouth love, just as we are. Sure, some-
times it smarts to chip a couple of teeth,
or have one broken in half. It hurts espec-
ially to have one shoved, wholly, halfway
down one’s throat. And no laughing
gas around. Trust me. I’ve been there.
We’ve all been there, am I right?
Anyway. Unrelatedly, I went to some-
thing called Laugh Therapy a few weeks
ago with Cassandra. First of all, Polk
Gulch is no place to laugh. Take my
word for it and do not mention to anyone,
especially someone intent on laughing
for an hour or two (I still wish I knew how
this actually works, but I remain a skep-
tic) that they’re in the Gulch. It's no
laughing matter, let me tell you. And if you
happen to be at the home of someone who
resides there? Ask what it’s like being up the
Gulch these days (or query with What’s it
like to walk to the corner store for a
cigarette at two in the morning? or Have
you met any nice neighbors yet? In my
defense, I had no idea it had already been
a decade this poor lady had survived in
such a noir-worthy slum). To each
each their own, I say. But, man, home is
where the heart is. And home is a mighty
strong word for anyplace in the Gulch.
I say this just in case you are not person-
ally aware of this. God’s word from me to
you. Just make a note of it. See [he chuck-
les], I have a terrific sense of humor!
But do you know what they told me at
this...this Laugh Therapy session that
Cassandra dragged me to? After about
five minutes, no less, it was two words:
"Get out!" Not that I hesitated in the least,
but they did add a few more as I was picking
up my belongings and walking out the
door. They said....they proclaimed...
that this was AB SO LUTELY NO
place for SARcasm! The nerve!
There weren’t even any placards
warning anyone what a serious thing
this laughter is, not even anything on the
big blow-up beach balls or the purple ball-
oons; no TAKE YOUR SARCASM &
SHOVE IT! No nothin’! And yet, I
found myself laughing hysterically — ya
know? That god-awful terrifying laugh
of mine, when it does show up, it shakes
me to the core. Yet it was even more real,
this laughter, if you can imagine. Such a relief
from that humorless lack of hospitability.
Sourpusses, each and every one of them.
But there’s me, laughing for two, maybe
three entire blocks straight, directly away
from the farcical home of Laugh Therapy.
What a riot! I haven’t even spoken to
Cassandra since, the poor gal. And,
what’s worse is now I’m a bit bitter
over the incident (and bitter does
rhyme with titter, does it not? That
just got ya, ehh?). I believe that
under the direst of circumstances
that I have not only held on to my
humor, but I would say I have a
keener sense of the joy of sheer
laughter than anyone you might
think to match me up against.
And go ahead, I dare ya. Just
you try to look at the choices,
and as competitively as you can.
I would win, hands down. I
mean, come on, look what
I’m wearing, for Pete’s sake.
And, like I mentioned, Pete’s
not even here. Take my hair, for
example. How does this mess not
bring you to tears? And just have a
gander at the eclectic set of knick-knacks
I’ve collected over the years—that
now live right here on my living room shelf;
the guffaws they’ve elicited. And there
are, as always, the dozen or so thumb-
tacks I keep head down on the ottoman.
Granted, I used to have a lot more comp-
any than I do these days, but that was
worth a gold mine every single time
some poor sot went for it. I mean, who
sits on an ottoman anyway? For Pete’s
sake! And, he’s not even...well, you get
my point, I am sure. [He says as he elbows
his pal in the ribs:] I just dare you to tell me
that I’m the only one left laughing on this
here planet. In fact, I double-dog dare you.
my point, I am sure. [He says as he elbows
his pal in the ribs:] I just dare you to tell me
that I’m the only one left laughing on this
here planet. In fact, I double-dog dare you.
