Jokes Aren’t Funny Anymore

(Obsessive Humour)

Dear Reader,
As the Smithsonian title suggests, Jokes Aren’t Funny Anymore.
It’s true, I kid you not,
but jokes are so out.
Engulfed by the past master, they seem a hideous disaster.
Sorry is what I feel when I see this lame-ass hipster,
he tells jokes when he meets people for the first time,
a dumb pitcher.

Now, Sarcasm, that’s the thing of this generation,
this is something you can not learn, this is something you want to have,
an hilarious orgasm.
It has caught the world off guard
no one saw a specific start,
it just didn’t happen overnight but it sure has arisen the proportions of conscious fright.
For instance, Sarcasm is when Thom Yorke at Glastonbury in 2003,
while performing a rock number,
bids good riddance to his ghost
in order to become the perfect
Talk Show Host.

He knows he’s in the midst of producing a great performance,
but he has that witty character, an alien factor,
he goes ahead and starts waving his torso,
effortlessly teasing the crowds state he picks up on an interesting brake.
He exceeds his own capacity by this skillful humour,
capable to tease a brain tumour.

Concurrently, sarcasm is so contagious
because everybody wants it,
it’s the new disease in vogue,
well people on planet Earth do enjoy a certain saddistic misery in their lives,
life would be so boring if everything turned out well,
life would be so boring if everything was good,
and they end up eager to learn sarcasm,
like it would be ever taught at Oxford.
That would be like the supreme doctorate,
for nothing would you have to wait.

Not surprisingly enough,
it often seems anxiously scary to think if such sublimal qualities would last for my further generations to use,
but they will have some tool, to make them look cool.
It would be something fresh, full of energy,
a word doesn’t yet exist for it to be called, for the phenomena itself doesn’t yet exist. (Or, maybe it does. When he goes knuckle-bustin’ on the presidential table, and you’ll know what I’m talking about. But anyways!)
Hopefully over the years
science develops a technology which could make sarcastic features inheritable,
otherwise, the chances are that my lineage might turn out really terrible.
All I need is to see my grand children gifted with a unique attire of satire
for this turns Chandler’s sour incapabilities into bittersweet distractions,
and bottomline, these orangish turnstile tables are better than that lemon shaded disc player from the 80s.

And, if I could time travel to a future in which I am already superior
I would be the reserved king,
camouflaging my supernatural skill,
strategically would I preserve my ability and that would be the key.
I will be the commander standing at the cliff of his highest hill.
Inviting and inciting the remainders, if any,
to stand up and fight for your right,
I, for sure, would have started a riot.
Let’s not let the unhappened excite us beyond our presence,
catch a grip at reality,
first challenge the present for your claimed dexterity,
intiate the logarithms of your cunning chambers
and claim a raincheck on exaggerated vitality.
Let’s wait at the door with a gun and pack of sandwiches and we’ll be fine.

I hope you understand my concern, I hope to hear from you soon.
I shall write about my reactions with sanity.
I like these content gifts we exchange,
I love having you around, you make disappear all the frowns,
for years shall we never part,
me and my humorous inner counter-part.(Like the twin brother I never had.)
Yours hilariously,
Anonymous

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