Sometimes... well, a lot of the time stuff strikes me funny. Especially when it's not intended to do so. Don't ever take me to a funeral or a serious movie - I will embarrass you. I try not to let my mind go there, try not to react, but I've yet to find the off switch on that li'l mechanism of mine, that thing that finds amusement in the way people phrase things or in the syntax they use. A co-worker and I got in trouble at the last company meeting because, based on a completely innocent sentence uttered by my boss and then a knowing nod and an obscure gesture on her part, we managed to distract everyone in our failed attempts to not giggle.
I once nearly got kicked out of church on Palm Sunday. I've told this story to people before and they either get it (and my amusement) or they give me a blank where's-the-punchline look. About 15 years ago I was at Palm Sunday Mass with my ex, his brother and sister-in-law. At the end of Mass one of the dear old blue-haired ladies was doing the announcements. She sweetly talked about used clothing donations, choir auditions, service times for Easter Sunday, and then she invited the congregation to celebrate Passover by attending the Seder feast put on by the church ladies. Blue hair went on to describe a Seder feast thusly, "This is a moving religious experience, complete with a lamb dinner." And in my mind I heard Ron Popeil say (in a curiously Yiddish voice), "But, Oy! Vait! Dat's not all!!!" Before I could even try to contain myself, a snort ripped from me... a loud snort (in terms of volume, think drunk and snoring 60 year old man)... loud enough to silence anything else going on, loud enough to turn the heads of every attendee and win a glare from the priest. But wait! That's not all!!! It was already too late for me. I was already, as Gordon once put it, three blocks away and 'round the bend. The harder I tried to suppress my giggles, the worse they got. I shook with laughter like a rag doll at the end of a running toddler's arm. My ex picked up on the infection and began laughing too, even though he had no clue why I was. My ex brother-in-law tried to silence me with a look that had absolutely no effect, and then he and his wife scooched down the pew in a feeble attempt to disassociate themselves from me.
I've never heard a priest fly through a benediction and cue the exit music faster than on that day. As we were leaving, me still shaking with laughter and wiping at my leaking eyes, we walked past the priest who was shaking hands at the main entrance. I tried to fade behind my brother-in-law, but he wasn't about to allow me to get off so easily. In a surprisingly graceful do-si-do I found myself facing the priest who already had his arm extended for a handshake. I wanted to apologize and perhaps explain my eruption. As I gripped his hand I said, "F-f-f-father... I'm s-s-so... sssssss..." giggled again and only managed to squeak out, "Mea maxima culpa..." (My greatest sin.) He politely cleared his throat and replied, "Go in peace." (Kudos to him for not simply saying, "Go!") He then promptly let go of my hand and turned to the next parishioner.
I was almost beyond it, but still subject to random fits of laughter, when about a half an hour later the four of us sat down to breakfast at a restaurant. The waitress came over and poured coffee, poised her pad and pen for our order, and asked, "What can I get for you?" Without pause, my brother-in-law tersely and dryly replied, "Anything but lamb." He really should have known better. Between his obvious irritation with me and the waitress's perplexed look and "we don't serve lamb here," I barely managed to wheeze out, "S-s-s-scrambled eggs-s-s-s-s, bis-s-s-scuitsssss..." Then I buried my face in my napkin and tried very hard not to see cavorting sheep with Ron Popeil's face on them.
Fast forward to January 28, 2009. Picture your favorite gypsy driving to work. It's o'dark thirty and Birddog is sailin' down the road at warp speed, headlights on, windshield wipers flappin', radio tuned in to KMTT. KMTT is playing some good tunes and the gypsy is groovin' and singin' right along. Jack Johnson finishes one of his upbeat tunes and a string of ads begins. The ads include one for a fertility program that boasts... oh help... "If you don't take a baby home from the hospital, you'll get your money back."
Mea maxima culpa est risus.
Just for fun... try not to dance to this one...
Cherry Poppin' Daddies, Zoot Suit Riot