A life without humor

Any "humor" you might detect in my blog is something you are putting there yourself.

I was stricken at an early age with a tragic loss of all sense of humor. I became "hard of humor" when I was 3 years old. On my third birthday, my parents were run over in a pedestrian lane by a very small car containing 8 clowns, 2 mimes, four racks of cream pies, a dozen seltzer bottles, 14 bicycle horns and a bucket of greasepaint.

Everyone died.

Not my parents, the people in the car. My parents miraculously sustained only minor scratches and mild blunt trauma.

But after knocking down my folks, the car lost control and rammed through the front door of a fireworks factory.

Skyrocket Division.

That's when things turned ugly, well, actually kind of beautiful for a while. The fireballs went on for hours and it was like the evening got pushed back with all the exploding lights streaking up into the heavens and lighting up the streets and the parked cars. I thought it was for my birthday party.

Finally the factory completed its melt down and the townsfolk got a grip and, needing someone to blame for the "no circus is coming to this town this year or ever-again-year" travesty, they fingered my family and that led to our fugitive life as clown killers.

That's the story behind my Dad's nitrous oxide addiction and the beard my mother grew.

To this day I can't tell a joke. I'm told by some that this unfortunate incident is itself "humorous." I wouldn't know. I guess it is an "in the eye of the beholder" kind of thing.