Rudd yawned.

“He came to me and he told me about this place, a glowing room underneath the earth that had green glowing crystals that were the keys to heaven’s gate.” The man paused. “I asked mother to find a man like you. I didn’t tell her why, but I need you to go find those crystals for me.” He coughed. “It was a long time ago—I was just a boy, but I’ve held onto the image my whole life.” The man’s eyes cleared and he caught Rudd’s gaze. “Sir,” he said, “I need you to find that room. I need you to bring me a glowing green crystal.”

Rudd shook his head. “That’s probably the dumbest thing anyone’s ever asked me to do,” which was an incredible statement, considering his vocation.

“Dumb or not, they exist,” the man said. “And mother will be paying you handsomely for your time.”

“Goddamn right she will.”

“You think I’m crazy.”

“Of course I do.”

“I’m not crazy.”

“Ok.”

“Find me that crystal and you’ll be rewarded even more handsomely.”

“If you say so.”

“They exist, just like you and I exist, sir,” he said. “Trust me.”

“If you say so.”

“And mother can’t know. It would scare her to think I was giving up.”

On the second day of July, a toddler taught himself to walk by mimicking the sky’s clouds that galloped passed his nursery window.  His bounding gait taught others how to dance and proved to birds that it was possible to fly.

On the third day of July, a frumpish little boy walked along a black sand beach along the north fork of the Isle of Man, staring over the water at the water color, rainbow sunset.  The gentle breeze whispered sweetly a song of praise, a psalm, an anecdote, advice on how to grow up, how to be a father an uncle and a brother.  The frumpish little boy grinned and spit into the sea.

On the fourth day of July, an awkward teen fumbled through his clothes, looking for a lock or a clasp or a hinge or a knot.  Although he had never seen it with his own eyes, he knew it was there, which is why he stumbled, stammered, paused, or blushed.

On the fifth day of July, a young adult made his bed.  He folded the corners and tucked the sheets, he fluffed the pillows and replaced the comforter.  He stood back, looking upon that which had created and realized that, in reality, he had not actually made anything; rather, he had simply reorganized what had already been.

On the sixth day of July, a man sat on his couch, reflective of his life thus far.  He remembered the good times, yes, but he also considered all of the wasted hours and how fast it all seemed.  He wondered if there was something that he was missing or if this was really it.

On the seventh day of July, an octogenarian stubbed his toe, yelled a curse, and was struck down, dead by the god he swore he never believed in.

I am, therefore I do.

I do, therefore I act.

I act, therefore things happen.

Things happen, therefore things change.

Things change, therefore there exists something outside myself.

There exists something outside myself, therefore I am not alone.

A good joke is one where the punch line is unexpected. If the audience knows what’s coming—if the punch is anticipated—it’s not going to be funny. If the punch is wholly nonsensical—get a few laughs as it might for the absurdity—it’s still not a good joke, as the creative construct of the joke itself was not the reason for the laughs.

So really, a good joke is one that is told to an end that the audience did not see coming, but when they think about it later, they realize they could have.

* * * *

Oh, and one more thing about that:

Humor is firm, but once it breaks, it’s practically irreparable.

Which is to say,

When someone loses the ability to make you laugh, they aren’t likely to get it back.

* * * *

In summation:

Humor is a product of awareness.