A good joke, as I’ve said many times, requires a butt—a person, place, or thing around which the punch line revolves. A stereotype on which everyone can agree. “An Irishman, a Greek, and an American walk into a bar.” You can bet that one of them will come out badly in the end.
I take full blame. In the throes of uncontrollable laughter, my friend hiccupped, “My mascara must be down to my knees!” It was. All because I’d told a funny story. The problem? We were at a funeral—a solemn, unsettling place where death tickles us under the chin and reminds us our turn is coming. Eye makeup often flows here—from tears. But from jokes? Consider this: when the horrifying becomes too intense, humor offers a release.
By Paul Bourassa
I, for one, am pleased to be associated with any group that has the name “baby” in it. Even if it is the Baby Boom. Just think of those poor X-Gen’ers. It already sounds like they’re goners.
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