Op-Ed: Humor Isn’t A Defense Mechanism, Idiot

By , in Opinion on .

defense

For years, comedic artists have been the victims of malicious attacks by the stale, unfunny masses who claim that we do what we do as an elaborate defense mechanism to cover up some sort of social deficiency or trauma, which is so not true. Those guys are idiots. I am as deficient as Rachel Dolezal is Black, i.e. not at all! Zing!

They say humorists are social misfits who cling to their funny ways in order to connect with people on a level that would be otherwise impossible for them, that without humor we would be reduced to social outcasts. Pssh, if you ask me those critics are the real comedians. I’ve made tons of friends, and yeah, I’m the funny one, but it has nothing to do with why they like me—nothing at all. Don’t get me wrong, I’m by far the funniest of them all—everyone says so. Well, except for Abby, but she’s not even funny. I’m telling you, I need comedy to make friends like The Voice needs Pharrell Williams. Have you guys heard about this show, The Voice? It’s like, newsflash NBC: everyone has a voice! Wh-wh-whaaattt?!?

Some say that we’ve been embittered by events in our lives and are secretly full of hate, which we channel into comedy because the world’s become one big joke to us. This one is preposterous. Just because I was ruthlessly harassed for my “unconventional” facial features and unflattering choices in clothing from ages 6 to 17 doesn’t mean I hold any kind of resentment towards the world. And yeah, when I showed up for prom looking amazing in my sexy new outfit, the same one I still rock occasionally when I do a set at the Giggle Shack, it was in fact an abandoned warehouse populated by addicts and prostitutes. This was the address I was given by my date, who I later found out didn’t really exist. I still had a pretty good time though. I swear, I’m as hateful as Mother Theresa is horny, and you can take that to the bank! Yayayaboink!

Some misinterpret our biting quips and witty bits as a buffer we construct between others and ourselves to make up for an irreconcilable fear of intimacy or being misunderstood. How little do they think of us? I’m intimate: I’m the most intimate person I know. I’m so intimate that almost every person I’ve ever had any sort of intimacy with has abandoned or rebuked me because they couldn’t handle how intimate I am. I’m actually approached daily by people I’m hanging out with who ask me expressly for less intimacy—I exude the stuff. I never knew my father. Hey, have you guys heard the one about the enriched plutonium? That stuff is THE BOMB! Kachow!

And who can forget the idea that comedic artists are little more than entertaining monkeys, eager for affirmation and praise deprived of them earlier in life. I’m no monkey, and the audience can go jump off a roof for all I care. Sure, I often do an act on stage where I pretend to be a monkey, hurling feces at myself or beating my chest like a proud silverback, but that’s actually a sophisticated commentary on the primal roots of modern man—and it always kills. Seriously folks, I have almost as much in common with monkeys as Drake has with the streets, i.e. nothing! Skadoosh!

And with that, I have vindicated all of comedic kind from the jealous attacks of boring, bland uncreative nobodies. We’re funny people, ok? Give it up, we’re just hilarious and you can’t handle that, you “9-to-5” ninny. I’m as socially adept as my father is cold and distant, even though I’ve tried to reach out to him countless times. You all have a father, right? It’s like, parent much? Compassion much? Oh god…Wha-wha-whaaat?!?