My brother and I find that our sense of humor intersects in some dark, dark corners of the universe.
This, despite the tattoo artist’s conviction that we were playing some sort of prank on her, is not what I’m talking about. (He has one too).
One Thanksgiving, we ended up laughing so hard we almost puked over this idea: gift baskets for death row inmates. See, if you delivered them late enough, they wouldn’t have time to open or eat everything in there, and you could just sell the whole basket to the family of the next guy in line.
I know. It’s not funny.
Or the time we found the girl who was killed in Monty Python because she weighed the same as a duck absolutely hilarious. I mean, that shit is funny – Monty Python always is – but the idea of that girl looking across and realizing that she weighed the same as a duck and that meant she was going to be drowned as a witch? Pee in your pants funny. Had she been dieting?
The day before yesterday, for reasons unknown, we were discussing whether or not we should have wills. We’re grown ups, with stuff – what happens to our stuff if we die?
We established that if we did write wills, they’d probably be full of secret fuck-yous. Like, to this woman at school (I know this comes as a shock, but I’m not actually crazy about everyone at my school), I would leave all of my ugly clothes. But I wouldn’t say it that way, so she might actually wear them.
Huh. Now that I think about it, that secret dark corner where our humor intersects seems to just be somewhere mean.
Last night I was all loopy and I was trying to tell jokes to Crockett, and here’s the best one I came up with:
Q: What’s more violent than hockey?
A: Getting stabbed in the neck by Jack Bauer.
I still think it’s funny.
See? Mean.