She picked up her iPhone and looked me up on Twitter after my “friend” told her that I was funny. After fumbling around between each other on the spelling of my name she proclaimed loudly:
“Wow, you’re like a Twitter GOD!”. I cringed; I can’t fucking stand that statement. I don’t agree with it at all, but even if it was true, is that even a compliment? It’s fucking TWITTER!
Also, I knew what came next, the part that I even hated more.
As I sat there trying to be polite, she started reading my tweets out loud to the entire table. Dinners with friends are supposed to be relaxing and fun, right? But no, this woman, who I didn’t like from the first moment I saw her, was reading through my Tweets like a robot.
“Oh, ha ha, this ones is funny, don’t you think Tom?” she fired across the table. “ You’re a proctologist, do people really weigh that much less after they move their bowels?”
Tom looked as uncomfortable as I felt. He quickly shoveled some food in his mouth and then pointed at it saying that he would respond after he finished chewing. I wished I had an out like that. I also wished I could shove a sock in Candace’s mouth.
She wasn’t done yet; she marched on.
“I don’t get this one, what is the difference between a “Great Tit birds” and “Great Tits, Bird?” She looked at me like she wanted me to dissect the joke, explain each element, reanimate it with a bolt of lightening and watch it stumble around like a zombie joke, a mere shadow of what it was before. I didn’t have my power point joke dissector handy so I just stared at her.
After a minute of uncomfortable staring I heard, from across the table:
“A ‘Great Tit’ is an actual bird, Candace, and ‘great tits, bird’ is slang for a breasts on a woman. It’s funny!”
She didn’t laugh. Nobody laughed. It’s not that I cared; I didn’t write these jokes for these people and besides, with the monotonous tone of Robo-Candace she could have been reading something written by George Carlin from center stage of comedy hell and it would have bombed. No, the thing that bothered me is that now I was “the funny guy” at the table.
The Funny Guy™ at the table is different from “hey, that guy is funny!”. Here’s the difference: The funny guy at the table is actually the joke of the table. No matter what is said at that point people assume you are making a joke. I could stand up, make a toast to my dead father, break out in tears about how awesome he was and people would laugh. That’s right, the funny man at the table is actually the court jester, the joke of the table.
“OOOOOHHHH I loved Macgyver! Listen to this one! ‘If your name isn’t Macgyver just take the damn car to-”
I grabbed her phone, threw it on the ground, beat it senseless with my shoe until I was sure that it was non-functional anymore and then kicked the remaining tele-carcass into the busy street where I knew it cold not be recovered.
I got back up, adjusted my pants, sat down and grabbed the bread basket. After taking a piece for myself, I offered it to the table.
“Bread?”
No one laughed.
3 Comments
As I read through this recanting of your tale, glued to every word, I felt your pain; your struggle; your embarrassment. I was there in the moment with you, feeling as awkward as you. It was an emotional connection unlike any I’ve ever felt before whilst reading something online by someone that I only know but through various Social Media websites.
As I read your tale of woe, feeling with with you every step of the way, all I could think to myself was “OMFG! He spelled Carlin wrong! What a friggin loser!!!!”
*someone* needs to get their eyes checked. I kind of think that George would appreciate having someone misspell his name while implying he’s one of the best comedians ever. There’s a certain irony to it. Anyway, I have no idea what you are talking about. EYES CHECKED.
Oh my mistake! Must have read that wrong after you edited it! =)