The (not-so) Chortling Monk
Brother Giggles Guffawaw Wazoo was feeling a little low. And understandably so, I mean, the dude had taken a vow of hilarity and was currently suffering from what can only be described as a seriously decent case of the heavy blues. He hadn’t been able to muster so much as titter these last sombre days since the funk took hold of him, and needless to say, it was affecting his practice. Sure there had been times since he had joined the Brothers of the Holy Order of Uproarious Cachinnations when he had not felt the funny so enthusiastically as St. Hee-Haw (bless his goofy grinning soul) would have ordained so drolly from on ha-ha-high, but he still had managed to chuckle his way through it. And dang dong darnit if he hadn’t always come out stronger for the jocular struggle. But these days, Brother Giggles was feeling pretty dang dong low. The other members of his comedic sodality had noticed, and to their credit were doing their merry best to lift him out of his lugubriosity. Rogue banana peels, whoopee cushions, and knock-knock jokes to beat the band were just some of the myriad attempts at getting their Cimmerian chum back on the knee slap, but so far it had been to no avail. And please, make no mistake, he appreciated them for it, a heckuva lot, but it was just, well, tough to find the funny. Somewhere, deep down in his emotional bag, where he had for so long kept so much boffola, sadness had seeped on in and up. Maybe it was the children in Africa, so hungry and cancer ridden. Or the many wars where the children found themselves scared and hungry and riddled with cancer. Or the children in the crumbling inner city schools with no lunch and no money to pay for their pencils or cancer medicine. It was too dang dong much.
So he prayed hard and long and fast to heaven and Hee-Haw above to send the buffoonery back into his life. To take away the black. The sour. The doom. And deliver him to Humdingerton.
He knelt, tears streaming down his face, beseeching with all his
Dear God, you great and wise old obstreperous side-splitter, please help me. Give me the strength to bust a gut. To just let me ha-ha-ha again. Bring the funny. Amen.
What he wanted was laughter. What he got was a miracle. Of the hilarious kind…
Originally published at theleatherdouche.wordpress.com on August 22, 2016.