I feel like a bad father. See, my son, thinks he’s really funny. And to be brutally honest, most of the time, he’s not. I’m not really sure why. It could be his potty humor, or the fact he keeps making weird noises and expecting me to drop to the floor laughing. Usually, I just look at him, with an emotionless face, thinking: Is that all you’ve got?! And I feel bad, because I really want him to be funny, and it hurts me to see him fail so miserably.
I also don’t want to encourage him too much. At least not the unfunny, juvenile material of his repertoire. Once in a while however, something funny escapes him. We laugh. Sometimes even a lot. And knowing that he’d penetrated our hard exterior crust of coldheartedness, he fires off a cascade of backup jokes, that once again fall flat.
I admire his persistence.
When I was a young boy, I was a comedic genius. I used to make my parents laugh. I remember how essentially everything coming out of my mouth being original, smart and downright hilarious. None of that potty stuff. I played out scenarios in my head where I was on stage, and people had come from all over to enjoy my clever wit. The audience laughed. Some even fell out of their chairs. The cheered. Wanted more. Encore. I was ready to go on tour. Hit the comedy clubs all over the country. I was that good.
So it came as a great shock to me, as I recently found out from my parents, that my humor had been equally sophisticated as my son’s, when I was his age. I hadn’t been the mastermind of comedy I always believed. I had even been described as “annoying” and “weird”. My world was shattered.
Looks like this condition might be hereditary.