If comedy were treated like pornography

Yeah, I seen it all working in this video store. One day, they come in looking for Sam Kinnison and swearing up and down that they’re totally straight and don’t have a single kink.  Some come in once and never return but some… well… they get bored. They start to experiment. Soon it’s Bobcat, then Andrew Dice Clay, and before you know it they’ve worked their way across to the other side of the store and they’re standing behind the curtain with the Blue Collar Tour in one hand and Carrot Top in the other. The other clerks and I keep a pool on how long it takes ‘em to turn to the dark side.

The worst are the guys who ask me what I think is funny, or who want to tell me their favorite bits.  Dude, I make $9/hr.  There is no way in hell I am going to trade limericks with you.  I don’t want to see your quips.  For the love of god, keep your novel where the cops won’t see it.  I don’t come here because I love it and I want to talk shop, I’m a college dropout trying to fix his life.

Oh yeah, fuck you for leaving your laughter spittle all over the discs.  You couldn’t calm down long enough to give it a wipe?  I can see your basement apartment now, covered in drool, used tissues, and cat hair.  I don’t even want to touch your money knowing it’s been in your hands.  This isn’t a jar of personal moisturizer behind the counter, it’s antiseptic.

Next time you want to have a laugh, have some common decency.