There’s certainly nothing funny about hitting your funny bone. After hitting mine on an 8-foot tall inflatable gorilla from a 1990s used car dealership in the middle of a modern art gallery, I can confirm that neither I nor the gorilla found anything humorous about the situation. What’s humerus, though, is the bone in your upper arm. And I would think that after hitting my humerus bone, I’d churn out some of my funniest anecdotes, but that’s not how it works. Honestly, I’m not really sure how it works—kind of like the cars at that 1990s used car dealership.
I just know that if I don’t keep writing these anecdotes, I’ll probably end up selling those cars. There are plenty of opportunities to bump your funny bone when you’re a used car salesman: shaking hands with someone after making a deal or trying to roll a few odometers back without getting caught. To be a really good used car salesman, you probably have to be a bit dishonest, and I’m no good at telling lies—just telling stories. Even if some of my stories are a little hard to believe.
But would you believe this 1992 Dodge Caravan only has 76,438 miles on it? It was only ever driven to church by a little old lady who couldn’t drive it anymore because she broke her funny bone. When I suggested she see a doctor about it, she said the doctor told her he’d need to saw it off because there was no such thing as a funny bone. That’s a sawbones for you, always with a bone-dry sense of humor.
I could be a used car salesman, but I don’t want people to have a bone to pick with me about the less-than-superb cars I sold them. Kind of like the art gallery owner had when I inflated that 8-foot gorilla. I think she might have hit her angry bone. So, I’ll stick to being a bonafide writer and telling jokes. After all, I did get an ‘A’ in my Bonehead English course.
Plus, there’s something satisfying about watching people laugh at your stories rather than having them groan over a lemon of a car. And let’s face it, in the world of used cars, you’re just one broken timing belt away from a bone-rattling ride. At least with writing, the only thing getting rattled is my imagination. So, here’s to more anecdotes and fewer encounters with inflatable gorillas. Because, let’s be honest, even modern art has its boundaries—and my funny bone just can’t take another hit.