I’m not a stand-up comic. I don’t tell jokes standing up in front of a microphone. I’m too scared to go in front of people with a pre-determined list of jokes—a bucket of jolly—and hope they laugh. In-between their drinks and chuckles at each other’s side jokes. No. I like to sit down. I’m getting older and wiser. And balder. I like to sit down. No. I don’t want to be a hunched over old man stumbling down the street. No. I’m not making fun of stumbling old men (or women) or anyone for stumbling down the street. Letting life get them down, bent down by the world and whatever else made their spines shrink and bend over. No.

I want to be a strong, straight-standing man when I get older. I want to be healthy as fuck. I want to be able to use the word fuck without having to censor myself from some old pre-determined language barrier.

I don’t want to be a stand-up comic. But I might have to. Just to get out my opinions and feeling and unique patented trademarked undeniably right take on the world.

But then again, the world doesn’t even exist. It’s just a bunch of people—humans mostly—mucking up the Earth with this garbage and opinions and trouble. Trouble? That’s not very funny. What trouble?

Trouble with each other. Folly. Avarice. Vices. Greed. Violence. The usual stuff. Humans can’t seem to be capable of walking upright on two legs without mucking it up for other humans.

I wrote a quote yesterday:

What would you be if the world wasn’t here? And it was just you and yourself?

I wanted to find out who I was behind all the pre-determined “Thou shalts” and “I can’t,” and “No. Not me…”

What did “I” truly want out of life?

Can I put that into a stand-up routine?

Did you hear about the mechanic who wanted to be a flower arranger?

No?

Well, this guy grew up and became a mechanic because that’s what his dad told him he was and should be and was going to be.

But deep inside the guy just wanted to futz with roses. In a vase. He loved the colors and smells of flowers. He didn’t want to monkey around with engines and pistons and brakes.

He just wanted to arrange daisies and smell lilies.

He grew up and became a mechanic. And he hated motor oil. He wanted flower water.

Then one day he said, “Fuck it. I’m done changing oil. Time to sell flowers.”

And his father said, “That’s some dumb shit. You can’t sell flowers. No one wants flowers. And they damn well won’t pay you for them.”

And the son said, “I’ll stick them inside the top of cupcakes. Everyone loves cupcakes.”

And since he was a loving son, he said, “I’ll even make one out of motor oil, just for you, Dad…”

And that’s the story of our lives.

Either we stay in the garage of our “thou shalts” and “I can’t” and “No. Not me...”

Or we go find some damn flowers and put them on the table of our soul.

And stick them on top of cupcakes, if need be…

©2022 Bruce Palma. All rights reserved.