Those conniving spirits that hover above me when I write are up to no good again. They don’t want me to be funny. They conspire amongst their stupid selves to see how they can sabotage my writing. They keep all their funniness to themselves, those selfish no good for nothings. They swirl above me laughing at me trying to be funny. Even when I try to crack a joke, they put sad images in my brain so the joke can’t be funny. They keep reminding of my dog Franklin that died last year when I ask them to give me something to laugh about.

I didn’t do anything to deserve that kind of treatment. I am just a poor dude sitting here trying to write something funny, but no-o-o, they won’t let me.  I’m a good citizen. I don’t go around kicking old ladies or taking candy away from the little kids in the neighborhood. I take a bath once in a while like I’m supposed to do. I do normal things and deserve to be funny.

Yet these bastard spirits still don’t want me to be funny. I summon them when I sit down to write, and all they do is laugh at me. I wish I could get back at them somehow. I’d love to interrupt them when they are laughing and ruin their merriment. I wish there were spirit dogs somewhere around that died, so I can remind them of their dead dogs. Or maybe I could buy a joke book and tell a joke without those bastards interfering. That’ll fix them.

We, us trying to be funny people rely on those spirits to give us funny stuff. If we can’t be funny, what good are we? We should all assemble together and revolt against them, if we could find them. If we could see spirits, that would help. Maybe they could be on vacation. Then we should wait until they come back from it. We have to be persistent.

If they just keep laughing at us, we’ll just have to accept our un-funniness and go on trying to be funny even though we can’t. Those bastard spirits, abandoning us in time of need, those no good ^#%(@. Go to hell, you no good for nothing spirit dudes up there swirling around us. I don’t think you’re funny.