I was talking to a friend on the phone the other night, describing some CRPS nonsense or another, and I said, “I don’t have a leg to stand on.”
He paused, gurgled back a chuckle because whatever I was talking about was, in fact, not anything to laugh at, he paused again, and asked, “uhm, did you just intensionally make a leg pun?”
Of course I did. I do it all the time. Leg and nerve puns are great. “Shake a leg,” “I’m on my last leg,” “this is fraying my nerves.” I could go on. But I won’t.
Puns, along with dry (arid, extra-dry) sarcasm, help me tolerate it all. I guess you could say that I have a penchant for finding humor in situations that are exceptionally not at all funny.
My friend commended my ability to make light of my overwhelming circumstances. Pretty soon, we were both laughing a little too hard about CRPS and the ridiculous overarching shitstorm that I call my life. He told me that I could (should, really) make up a stand-up comedy routine.
“Yeah, except for one small detail: I can’t actually stand up.”
Right. Of course. So I’d have to find a way to deliver the routine from my bed.
So I gave it a little (very little) thought: my lay-down comedy routine would probably be some bizarre hybrid between Disney’s Bedknobs and Broomsticks
and a much less thrashy, much less maturbatory rendition of Madonna’s Like a Virgin performance from her Blond Ambition tour.
Think about it. It’d be great.