A Nuanced View of Humor

Humor requires a certain level of oversimplification. Nuance is not funny. Too much empathy and understanding, and it's a lot harder to make fun of something. That's why some really dumb people are also really funny, and some of the most intelligent people are about as funny as a bag of rocks. A bag of humorless gray rocks, in an humorless brown bag. That is why you suck all the humor out of something by trying to analyze it. That is why the Philosphy of the Simpsons is a really boring book. That is why Sportsnight got cancelled. Now, someone is going to read this (assuming anyone reads anything I write) and say, Hey, but sometimes nuance is funny. There is plenty of intlligent humor out there, and there are plenty of highly intelligent humorous people. To them I say: Shut up. You're not funny.

My Immature Retelling of the Story of Balaam

I think this is one of the most entertaining stories in the Bible, and evidence that you never know where you'll hear the voice of God: The King of Moab is kind of freaked out, cause Israel just kicked the Amorites’… uh…butts. And so he sends some of his Moabite buddies to the prophet Balaam, and they ask him to come and curse Israel. Now, Israel is God's chosen people, so god won't let him go, at first, but then God changes his mind, and tells Balaam, “OK, go ahead, but don’t do anything stupid.” In other words, don’t do anything unless I tell you to do it. So Balaam goes with the King’s buddies over to Moab. He’s riding along on his ass (you know, donkey), when God changes his mind again, and sends an angel to block the road. This is God’s way of saying “Back that ass up.”

But Balaam can’t see the angel. So this makes him a little angry, and it probably didn’t help that those Moabites where behind him telling him to “Move your ass!” So he hits his donkey. Now, this happens three times. Then the donkey starts talking. "What the heck," it says. Balaam says, “You dumb ass, why aren’t you going where I tell you?” And the Donkey says, “I've got a pretty good reason! Am I not a good ass?” And then Balaam sees the angel. “Oh!” Says Balaam. “I’m dumber than ass!” And he is, apparently. I think this is the only place in the Bible where God talks out of his ass.

Personality Test

Because Star Wars is what everyone is talking about, and because my roommate sent me a link, I took a star wars personality test. It said I am Emperor Palpatine. Great. I took it again, and I was Darth Vader. Then Yoda. Then R2D2. I'm not sure what to make of this. Am I a powerfl evil emperor with a serious wrinkle problem or a small green alien, also with a serious wrinkle problem. I'm not sure exactly how scientific this test is. Questions like "Are you scruffy lookin?" and "Are you a big softy at heart?" should have clued me in. My friends like to take these personality tests. Which Star Wars character are you? Which Lord of the Rings Character are you? Which brand of toothpaste are you? Often they give you a little description of your personality at the end: "You are serious but like to have fun. And loyal." Or, "You like to have fun but can be serious. And you're nice to small animals." I mean, who isn't nice to small animals. They conveniently ignore all the ways that you aren't like your assigned character. If they didn't, these tests might be considerably more entertaining: "You are serious, but like to have fun. And you are short, wrinkly, and green." Or, "You are very talented, and there is good in you, but before you discover that you will kill a whole bunch of people." And finally, "You are evil."

New Orleans

It's a smelly place, New Orleans. And I mean this literally. Especially the French Quarter, or as I like to call it, the smells-like-vomit quarter. Saturday night on Borboun Street throngs of drunken tourists crowd the narrow streets and obnoxious thudding sounds (or music, as some call it) spill out into the streets. I'm not sorry I went there on a Saturday night, but I didn't find it particularly appealing. You squeeze yourself towards the bar between tourists, who are just like you except they inexplicably seem to comfortable squashed between strangers, and then squeeze yourself back towards your friends where you pretend to dance or quickly decide to leave cause, you know, it sucks in this bar. During the day the French Quarter is nicer, though it still smells like the bathroom did after that time my roommate got really sick. The brick streets are narrow and the buildings are tall and old close together. And it's easy to find an ATM. Which is important when you go to New Orleans with some of my friends. Because they will want to eat. This is what they do for fun. They eat. And then they talk about what they eat. So we go to Brennan's, and I drop 50 dollars and try to convince myself that it's the best brunch I ever had even though these poached eggs taste like vinegar. I hate vinegar. At least the soup was good. And then there's the mufaletta. ooooh the mufaletta. I believe my friend when she says it's delicious if you get it at this deli in Jackson square, but when you buy it at the coffee shop before you leave on the long trip back to Texas, you regret it the entire way. Just thinking of the salty smell of those green olives makes my stomach churn. But at least I saw my friends. They were fun, and didn't smell, and I hope I see them again before another year is up.

Cookie Monster: Tragic Hero of Sesame Street?

Imagine that you love cookies. You love them more than life itself. They are your obsession, your reason for being. I mean, your first name is Cookie, and your not even a hippie or anything. That's how important cookies are to you. And you have a huge mouth. You could easily stuff three or four cookies in your mouth at a time. And you do. But here's the problem, the thorn in your side: You don't have a throat. Or a stomach. Not even tastebuds to truly taste the cookies you so stronlgy desire. No, you are doomed to empty craving for the rest of your furry blue life.

So you are forever hungry for cookies. Forever craving their sweet chocalately chips and buttery sugary goodness. Everyday you fling cookies into your mouth with both hands, as if you could force them down your imaginary throat. But you never give up. No, each week you are filled with hope that you will finally be satisfied. And each week you find yourself dissapointed after the show, and covered with cookie crumbs.

But maybe this isn't a true tragedy. Maybe, Cookie Monster, we can all find inspiritation in your persistence, your unfailing belief that you can one day acheive your goal, pull yourself by your own...blue fuzz into cookie heaven. How American. Or maybe you are a sad delusional addict, seeking fulfillment in something that can never truly fulfill you, in a very literal sense. I don't know. Whatever. At least it makes the kids laugh.

Monologue of a Retired Highway Construction Worker from Houston

I miss the color of the cones. That bright glowing orange, so brilliant that it'll kill small animals if they stare at it for too long. I used to keep one in my bedroom, but my wife thought that was weird. It's in the garage now, with all the other barrels, cones, and road blocks that I loaded into the back of my truck the last day of work. In the evenings I sit in the garage and stare at them, move them around the garage. Sometimes I have to go out onto the street and put cones in the middle of the road just to feel normal. I love to watch people swerve around them with that surprised looks on their faces. I still have an old uniform, and occasionally I sneak onto the highway in my white 2003 Ford Supderduty Truck and put cones in the highway. I close off one lane, then two, then three, and watch the cars bunch up as they merge into a single lane, the men and women in their suits on their way back from work resignedly staring straight ahead listening to the news, or young proffessionals in business casual attire alternately swearing and anxiously tapping their fingers on the steering wheel. And then there are those people who try to cut ahead in the line. I hate those guys.

My wife recently suggested that I get a hobby. I've taken up model making. First I made some models of sports cars, A 68 Firebird and then a Ferrari Z8. Then a model 55 Ford pickup truck and on and on. Now I'm into SUVs. I especially like the new sport SUV's. Many of them come with minature white upper class families and little Whole Foods grocery bags.

I've found that these cars felt incomplete without roads, so I began to build roads, and soon I found that I had a minature city in my garage. Well, my city is mostly a network of highways. I thought it was nearly complete, but I keep building more cars, and these cars need more highways, and so I have to close off the highways for weeks to expand them and reroute traffic all the way around the city. And when those expansions are complete, I build some more model cars, maybe an H2 or something else marvoulesly impractical, and find that I need more highways. It's a never ending cycle. I'm in heaven.

Organic

I've discovered it. The perfect food. It's sweet and tart and I probably even good for me. It's organic dried mangos. Not just any dried mangos, organic dried mangos. It's ambrosia, the food of the gods. If by "gods" you mean rich white people, people who drive gas gussling SUV's to whole foods where they buy organic fruit and cheeses from unpolluted farms in Wyoming. But really, who knew dried fruit could be so good. In heaven, all you do is eat dried mango, well, maybe you eat some other stuff too, 'cause a box of dried mango can make you a little queasy - you eat dried mango and you laugh at all the people who can't afford such tasty treats, all those people who have to eat pesticides for lunch and greasy McDonald's hamburgers for dinner and get fat because who wants to eat fruit if it's not dried and covered in sugar. When I eat dried mango, I am not only nourishing my body, I am promoting a healthier earth, going back to the way things should be, when food was grown on tiny farms and hand picked, the way they would do it in third world countries if we didn't pay them a whole lot more to mass produce t-shirts instead. And everyone would make their own clothing and live simply and ride on horses and stay close to home. Cause that's what I want. A world that is natural and clean and simple, like my organic mangos.