honesty in sports and laughter
stick your polite giggles where the turds come from
I love sports.
They are just so damn honest, even when people cheat and break rules.
In hockey one might slash an opponent or trip them behind the play.
In soccer a player (frequently Italian) will flop around like they’re shot in order to draw a penalty even though they were not touched.
These acts of deception?
They serve a purpose and they are part of the ultimate goal - ripping the head off your opponent and shitting down the hole.
When I ride my bike, I’m always competing when I’m commuting. I’m playing a game similar to those status games we all engage in unawares.
But it’s not sport.
Again, sports are more honest than that.
I don’t only look to dominate when I’m on a bike. In any group, I am possessed by a singular goal. This is true no matter where I am and with what company I keep. Simply put, I want to be the funniest motherfucker in the room.
And?
If being the funniest motherfucker isn’t valued?
I’ve got no fucking interest in being in that room.
Working in restaurants, there are no shortage of opportunities to play this game.
No one else might have this goal within the context of the workplace.
I may be competing against others who aren’t interested in this game.
And at the same time?
My efforts do not go unrecognized nor unrewarded.
But what happens dear reader when you have an institution, a school even where everyone there has the same goal - to be the funniest motherfucker in the room.
Though the competition can be fierce, my generous classmates at both the Dell Arte International School for Physical Theatre and Ecole Philipe Gaulier knew how to set each other up to shine.
We’d also go to outrageous lengths in order to see how shockingly funny we could be.
Frequently this involved taking jokes too far for the general public - like the time were were in full clown suits and make up and Yammathon told our waitress a joke the culminated with the punchline “Getting the blood stains outta your clown costume.”
That joke dear reader is too blue even for me. I’ll leave the rest to your imagination.
Indeed we all would push the limits whenever we could.
Yammathon and Tony once performed a piano duet of ‘Chopsticks’ entirely using their penises.
In fact, they’d pull out their penises whenever they could for comic effect.
Needed to pick a lock?
Use your penis.
Need a crowbar to move something heavy?
Pull out your penis and suggest using it as an option.
Creating a mime of a rocket ship flying to the moon?
Dear reader, I am certain that by this time you get the idea.
All of this is a long way of saying that clown school was unrivaled in its sense of fun and limitlessness.
In Paris however, one of the students had limits and they frustrated her to no end.
Emily from America as Philippe used to chidingly refer to her came from money.
And Emily from America was good.
She was a good person.
She was good at school.
She knew the rules of social engagement and being polite.
She knew what was politically correct to both joke about at talk about.
When it came to playing the games of the polite society of the American elite - the Bahston Brahmin and other families of intergenerational wealth, Emily from America was a fucking champ - we’re talking heavyweight champeen of the world quality lady.
Emily from America was used to being successful and respected.
And because of this?
Emily from America was boring.
Fucking boring. As Philippe said:
Emily from America you are so fucking boring you better be careful that the international tribunal doesn’t prosecute you for war crimes. You are boring us all to death. You are as funny as Kosovo.
In Philippe's school?
Emily from America cried. A lot.
And when she did, did we as students console her?
FUCK NO.
Well, one or two did, but they were unfunny too.
They thought it was unfair that we were all working so hard to break conventions and subvert rules of propriety for a laugh that they who were good at rules and respecting conventions and excelling were unable to get a laugh.
They wanted welfare giggles and charity guffaws.
Perhaps they were far too used to being patted on their heads and told they were amusing by their Aunties and other elders who humoured them in their humourlessness.
I dunno…
Yeah, Emily from America cried.
And the unfunny ones thought it was 'unfair.'
But the biggest unfairness is living a life where your best jokes are kept hidden, waiting for an Auntie's polite chuckle.
Some rooms won't value your kind of funny. So find the rooms where penises play pianos.
Find rooms where the jokes are too blue for the general public, but just right for the clowns.
Take the risk. Ignore Emily’s tears. Her sense of inadequacy is not your problem.
A true laugh, earned by leaping forward pants down, is worth a thousand polite smiles.
Don't be a war crime.
Be funny.
My calves look like I’ve gone running through a pen of angry kittens.
Nope, just another bike ride. Another day, another scab.
This is what joy looks like.