Laughing Matters: The One About Being Funny

By Ryan G. Van Cleave |  Illustrations by Darcy Kelly-Laviolette

The strangest thing happened to me the other day. I was invited to teach a humor writing class at Ringling College of Art and Design for spring 2020. The first thing that came to mind? Did I leave the stove on? The second thing that came to mind? Huh?

It eventually came to me that the reason people think I might have the yuktastic DNA required to successfully run a humor writing class is because of this monthly column. (I was going to insert a snarky, self-demeaning comment here—and I had a good one, I promise—but I nearly choked on a Triscuit a few moments ago, and in the ensuing hubbub, I misplaced that zinger.)

But I’ll let you in on a secret. 131.5% of the things that I write about in this column actually happened. From my perspective, this isn’t a humor column. It’s far more like exposé writing. Or some kind of whack-a-doodle biography. Or the result of channeling one of those voices I hear in my head.

Richard “Tricky Dick” Nixon once proclaimed: I am not a crook. In that same spirit of important bumper-sticker-worthy proclamations, let me add my own non-political 2 cents: I am not a comedian.

How do I know? Three reasons:

1) I get fan mail from Sarasota Scene readers all the time—read “all the time” as “once”—that comes out and says it plainly. “Hey. I’ve got a Barack Obama Chia Pet that’s more loads of laughs than you.”

2) I continue to try to revive the expression “Rock on!” to no lasting effect.

3) My family is my humor litmus test and either they’re broken, or I’m really good at failing to create snickers (the ha ha stuff, not the candy).

Exhibit A from this past Tuesday.

Daughter: My teacher said we had to create our own family crest and motto.

Me: Try “I intend to live forever. So far, so good.” Pair that with crossed fingers.

Daughter: What is your major malfunction?

Exhibit B from this morning.

Me: (Sitting on the couch, wearing socks on my hands.)

Wife: What are you doing?

Me: My toes are protesting.

Wife: Oh, for Pete’s sake.

Exhibit C, right this very moment.

Me: (At my computer desk, guffawing at the sudden realization that my car is powered by dinosaurs.)

I have yet more evidence, but honestly, do you need it? After this overwhelming onslaught of reasons to say “Nope!” do you still really think that I’m the right choice to teach other people—kids, no less!—how to tickle the world’s funny bone?

If you’re committed to this course of action, then here’s what you need to do pronto. Step 1: Buy 500 copies of Sarasota Scene. Step 2: Arrange them in your backyard to form the words “HELP ME!” Step 3: Await further instructions from your toaster.

Me? I’ll be trying to convince my pastor pal to change the sign out front to “Hipster Jesus Loved You Before You Were Cool.”

Watch for it.

PS—I remembered that zinger from before! The Triscuit-blocked one? In retrospect, it’s actually not that funny. (See what I mean?)

Are you ALSO exactly the wrong person to teach a humor writing class next spring? Want to share with me what your own humor major malfunction is? Do you have a hankering to confess the twenty-six reasons why you’re not the class clown, you were never the class clown, and you’ll never be the class clown? (Or do you secretly want to get on the waiting list to take this class which I’m not going to teach? I can maybe swing that, if you care to try to bribe me with one of those much-ballyhooed Barack Obama Chia Pets!)

That’s it for now. As always, I’m not at ryan@sarasotascene.com. Email me at your own peril, and maybe I’ll write to you again next month!