Is it sheer desperation when you start replying to your friend’s “What’s up’s” with “the fan? /the ceiling?/ god?” (for the pious ones).
Is that the end of the road for your weary sense of humor? Or does it still have a few miles, a few tricks up his sleeve?
It does say a lot about me when I personify my (barely there) sense of humor as a male. I tried to evaluate him.
Me: So, Mr. Sense Of Humor, what’s up?
Mr. S.O.H.: The ever churning blades of a fan, soon they will disappear.
Me: Yes, I can see that. You sound a bit morose, are you?
Mr. S.O.H.: Oh, no. I’m just dark. Been left out in the sun too long, you see.
Me: Ah, yes. So, Sense, erm, May I call you Sense?
Mr. S.O.H: Oh, go ahead. I’m here to please, aren’t I?
Me: Why so literal, Sense?
Mr. S.O.H: Do you have a better plan?
Me: I see. Mr. Humor, Why don’t cannibals eat clowns?
Mr. S.O.H.: Because it’s illegal.
Me: Oh. They taste funny.
Mr. S.O.H: What tastes funny?
Me: The clowns.
Mr. S.O.H: What clowns?
Me: From the joke.
Mr. S.O.H: What joke?
Here lies my Sense of Humor, rest in peace.
Well, this is what I’ve been feeling for the last couple of days. Not sad, not morose and not depressed just devoid of my sense of humor. I hope that it comes back to haunt me.