I intended to make this a brief meditation on the glories of dark humor, citing as an example a joke I wrote decades ago but improved only last week. I thought I could walk through the process of elevating an unpleasant but cosmically humorous statement to something written in ebon ink on coal and stentoriously delivered by the Death of Discworld.
But, nah.
Self-deprecation plays better on a Saturday. So, here’s an aural caricature of me as an honest-to-goodness 30-year-old powerlifter spending up to two hours a day, six days a week in the iron dungeon of Muscle Beach in the Adams Morgan neighborhood of Washington, D.C.
Flash forward to nearly 57-year-old me forcing myself to use the home elliptical machine for any amount of time.
Keep those wheels turning, ‘Cados.
That Joke I Mentioned
Original Version
A baby seal walks into a club.
* pause *
Very sad.
+++++
Darker Version
A colony of baby seals, celebrating their return from a first fishing trip, walk into a club.
* pause *
There were no survivors.