Bunny’s Sense Of Humor Will Be the Death of Him

I’m a man of many and sundry skills and gifts. I can make the honeys orgasm by playing merely a single note of a Hammond organ. I can rev-match on a manual transmission like there’s no next week. And I serve up a bodacious grilled cheese.

However, the gift that is both my greatest blessing and most odious curse is my sense of humor. I can find humor in the most mundane/strange/depressing shit you’ve ever seen, often at inappropriate times. When I was but a lad, and as you’ll see even to this day, it put me under the bus more than once. I fear that one day, it may do me in.

I once received a severely embarrassing, extremely loud, in-front-of-the-whole-cafeteria chastisement and a written conduct referral in 6th grade for calling a fellow student’s mama a llama. I didn’t have the cojones to bring up the fact that said student had been pulling the old open-your-mouth-with-food-in-it bit, which had elicited my anti-maternal response. O, if only I could go back.

Then there was the time my mother and I went downtown to take in a high-class chamber music concert. Before they had even finished tuning up, my ten-year-old mind had somehow conjured up an image of Ernie (of Bert & Ernie) tilting his head from side to side and making a sound that can only be described as, “oowee oowee oowee oowee oowee.” Don’t ask me how I managed to get this in my brain. Naturally, I became very antsy and giggly in my seat. My mother did not take too kindly to this, and scolded me repeatedly to quit it. However, soon the bug bit her, and we both found ourselves laughing uncontrollably like fools. We had to leave the show halfway through.

As anyone who’s ever spent the night with me knows, I laugh in bed. This doesn’t often happen when I’m by myself, but when someone’s there with me, I can’t help it. I think of funny shit. Most of my bedmates have found it cute, except one. My first long-term significant other, the brutal C2, was on Martha’s Vineyard after my high school graduation. Sure as saltpeter, I got a case of the chuckles one night, probably thinking about the time Haboob beefed it in the supermarket parking lot while carrying a box of popsicles, and she kicked me out of bed. Disallowed me from being in the bed. I had to sleep on the other side of the room. What a dragon-whore. She probably made me gay. Or perhaps it was portending things to come.

So there I was, last weekend, on the conjugal bed, about to give the business to a certain gentleman. I was on the approach, the landing lights were on, gear down, call the ball. And I start thinking about Jimmy O. Jesus Christ. For those who are unaware, Jimmy O is the lovable, loudmouthed repair tech at my place of employment. He’s done a station ID for the show before. He’s a fat little rough-and-tumble old stack of flapjacks from Revere, with a mouth as dirty as the Charles River and the kind of mullet that came free with every 1987 IROC-Z. What I was really thinking about was the song that the band is currently writing, entitled “Jimmy O,” about a man who shoots his own adult films, based on the true story. He’s done some fucked-up shit, son; shit you’d get arrested for back in the ’50s. For some reason, this is all I could think about as I was about to consummate this tender moment. Perhaps I envisioned myself as Jimmy O, about to do the dirty deed. Except I probably wouldn’t include a dog or an eggbeater. Who knows. But the image of his Ron Jeremy-esque physique would not leave my head. I quickly went limper than overcooked pasta, but golly Moses it was funny. There would be no sex that night.