A comedian without jokes is like… me?!

My daily prompt today was to tell a joke. I’m going to take that prompt and run, this is actually going to be a pretty long post, but not in the way it was meant.

I know I’m funny. It’s my favorite thing about me. I’m not delusional, most people have told me I’m funny and should be a comedian (yes, I dislike the feminine noun), but there are two major problems with that grand idea.

Problem number one: I can’t remember jokes. I could remember pieces of jokes. So, when I try to tell one, both my proofreader-self and my writer-self kick in with disastrous results. Writer Me tries to put its own spin on the joke (tell it from my perspective, first person) and my Proofreading Angel tries to correct the grammar of the joke. This is never funny.

Problem number two: I’m intensely shy. I cannot fathom standing on stage waiting for people to laugh at what I’m saying. I cannot even imagine the actual speaking part of this situation. I would probably wander out there looking like I can’t find my mommy and would stand there, stock still, waiting for some one to save me. That might be pretty funny.

So, knowing these two things about myself, I thought I would write humorous fiction/autobiographical narratives, blogs and the like. I can tell my stories, people will laugh, and everyone’s happy!

Okay, so I’ll write the first funny thing on my Mitten blog. (Editor’s note: she is sitting here, frozen. Her eyes are going a mile a minute, but she’s not typing. So, we wait.)

Ummm… I can’t think of anything that is not too long, sums me up, will be funny to everyone and will not require in-depth knowledge of my life. Ummmm… I could only think of my Pinterest pins. Those are funny, but I didn’t write them. Okay, okay, I think I have something.

I can’t sing. Well, that is a lie. Of course, I can sing, though definitely I should not be heard by humans, cats, dogs… basically any being with the capability of absorbing sound should not hear my vocal stylings. This does not dissuade me from singing.

I love to sing. I know every word to every song I’ve ever heard. I have a pretty good ear, and can say with conviction that someone missed a note, or was sharp, or what have you. I have a personality that loves to burst into song. No one in my family could sing, either, and we actually have a family tradition of singing “Happy Birthday” as bad as possible. The worse the song sounds, the better luck the recipient has in the coming year. Our children enter society thinking this is what you are supposed to do, and are always shocked when the cake comes at other children’s parties. I also have my neener-neener side that doesn’t care about the torture I’m inflicting. All this means I sing all the time.

Now, I have these singing/karaoke games for my Xbox. One evening a few years ago I was going to town on a whole playlist full of poignant, microphone tapping, chest clutching, emotional hand-gesturing songs. The layout of our living room is such that I could face the ginormous TV with my back to the couch, and my fiancé could be on his computer a few feet away from me, with his back to the side of me and all the action. He has a very expensive pair of headphones, was playing some loud “let’s pretend we’re soldiers” video game, and he has bad hearing in the first place. All that is no match for me. He could always hear my caterwauling. Poor, long-suffering soul that he is, after the seventh or so song, he says something sweet to try to get me to shut down for the night. I don’t remember what it was, it’s not important.

So, after singing “Ben” with all appropriate histrionics and wailing and screeching, my voice is done. I’m crackling, warbling and cracking worse than Peter Brady. My throat is begging for mercy, I’m expecting a knock on the door from the police any minute, but still, the show must go on, and I go for my encore. I take it easy on myself with “Love Story” by Taylor Swift.

It’s bad. It’s very, very bad. I could hear the strain in my voice, feel a lump in my throat (almost like the one when you are about to cry) and I’m imagining the neighbors picking up their phones, but still I press on. I get to the “Marry me Juliet, you’ll never have to be alone” and catch sight of my honey with his hands over his huge plastic space ears. I stride over, still singing, fall to my knees, pull on his arm and continue. “I love you, and THAT’s all I really know” tried to make it past the big, watery, scratchy blob lodged under my uvula, but the high note on “That” was just too much. I started to choke and sputter, still on the floor and about to keel over to the side when John says “Ohmygod, babe! Did you swallow a sheep?” My laughter forced its way past the scratchy blob as I proceeded to have one of the longest giggle fits on record.

I ended up crawling to the bathroom to pee, then going to bed with a headache about twenty minutes later. Hopefully, this story is funny to more than just the two of us and our friends and loved ones. I kind of need it to be a worthy story for my blog in which I stated that I am funny. Thoughts?


8 thoughts on “A comedian without jokes is like… me?!

    • I’ll sing anything, but I know what you mean. You just have to ask yourself, do I care what this person thinks? Or am I like that recent commercial with everyone singing “Mony, Mony”…. LOL, thank you for reading!


  1. Pingback: You Take the Good, You Take the Bad… | Living La Vida Mitten

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