I decided to read something funny versus being a Debbie Downer. I’ve heard people say it’s hard making people laugh, even harder writing humor into your work. Whoever, ‘they’ are couldn’t have been more right.
I’m not the friend you call when you need a pick-me-up or a good laugh. I’m the one you call when your life is falling apart and you need help putting it back together.
My funny is cynical like Chris Rock—unapologetically outspoken. That’s me. That’s who I am, a truth-teller. Humor can ease the sting of the truth, making it less embarrassing for everyone. Attempting humor is hit or miss. I’ve made friends cry after telling what I thought was a joke. Still, in a small corner of my mind, I feel I can make people laugh.
Humor is everywhere. Even the most vile and dramatic shows have humor quietly tucked away in the plot. If I’m forced to sit and watch, I’m dissecting the humor, in each scene, aloud. Probably don’t want me as your TV buddy.
Understanding how I communicate requires us spending time together. Sometimes, I speak through facial expressions. I know I may look like an angry black woman, but I’m actually not. I love to laugh.
My friends are usually to the left of my personality. Not that I like drama, but I find something wildly entertaining watching people live without remorse. Good, bad, or indifferent. It’s almost a perfect balance, usually weighing slightly heavier on me. I’m the one always having to rise from their comfort zone. I don’t drink, but I’ll watch others make a fool of themselves—in a safe setting, of course. I may walk the straight and narrow path, but I will ride seven hours to your cousin Pookie’s house, so he can chop your car and set the frame on fire. I’m just saying…
Bu, more often, than not, I’m throwing out worst-case scenarios of you getting caught, especially if your response is “We ain’t gon’ get caught.”
So, if you don’t know me, you won’t know any of that. One can’t simply judge my personality based on my appearance. My blog say’s a lot, but it doesn’t tell it all. At some point, I’ll probably offend you, if I haven’t already. I can assure you, it’s because you don’t know me.
One of the main reasons, besides marketing, that I want to perform book readings is to enhance my social intelligence. Only time will tell if I write another book. My ultimate goal is engaging people in all forms of communication.
Last nights performance went over well with the small crowd. I definitely have a greater respect for performers and speakers who tirelessly rehearse for weeks, even months, for a 30-minute or hour performance. The goal was to make the audience laugh, even if it was just one person. As I wipe the sweat from my brow, I can say mission accomplished.
Sorry, I don’t have video footage but here’s an excerpt of my 2 minute and 55 second performance:
I got up a short time later to find 3-year-old Cherub already awake from her nap and covered in baby powder. I went into Ebony’s bathroom and found powder and other items on the floor. I ordered her to come into the living room with me. I looked down at her, next to the couch and noticed something strange about her face. Let me see—a nose, two eyes, two ears…oh my god!
“Cherub, where’s your other eyebrow?!”
She looked up with big brown eyes, then shrugged.
“Cherub, what happened to your eyebrow? It’s missing!”
“I don’t know,” she whispered.
“Your mother is going to kill me. I need you to tell me what you used to take off your eyebrow. Did you use scissors?” I asked.
She shook her head no.
“Did you use shaving cream?”
She shook her head no.
“Did you use tweezers?
She smiled and shook her head no.
I scratched my head. What did she use then? I thought. I got up and searched around the bathroom for any sign of a missing eyebrow. I found nothing. “Cherub, you’ve left me no choice but to call your mother.”
“Hello,” she answered.
“Um, I have a question,” I said. “Did Cherub have an eyebrow when you left for work this morning?”
I could hear her mouth drop through the phone.
“Oh. My. God,” she said in disbelief and laughing quietly to herself.
“What are you talking about?”
“Cherub’s eyebrow is missing,” I said. “I want to know if you’ve seen it.”
“Mari, Cherub better have two eyebrows when I get home,” she warned before hanging up.
“Cherub, I’m going to ask you one more time. What happened to your eyebrow?”
She gazed at the television. It was no use; she wasn’t talking. A short time later, the front door slammed and the rhythmic sound of footsteps approached coming up the stairs.
“Cherub, let me see your face,” Ebony demanded. She looked over at me.
“In my own defense, I took medication,” I plead. “I put us both down for naps and when I woke up Cherub didn’t have an eyebrow.”
Ebony searched around the bathroom and Cherub followed.
“I already looked and couldn’t find anything,” I shouted from the couch.
She came out five seconds later. “She used my razor, you idiot!”
No, sit, you’re too kind. Goodnight Folks! Drive safely.
From here, I do the princess wave off the stage and back to my seat.
…Only in my mind do such wonderful things happen.
Live. Bless. Prosper.