What’s all this unfunniness?
unfunnyme.com has been up and running for three days now.
You know what that means?
It means that the four people reading it know me personally.
Mostly they read it under duress.
This involves me luring friends over to dinner…
and captivating them with my wit and charm. Like this:
“Oh, I’ve been meaning to show you this website.”
Or, “OMG, you have to see this, you’ll love it.”
Once the unsuspecting guest is tightly bound to my office chair I promise to rip the duct tape off quickly after they read unfunnyme. Then I commit a crime far worse than binding and gagging your dinner guests.
I read over their shoulder.
Sometimes I even read aloud. I can’t help it. If unfunnyme is on my screen I’m compelled to read it. I still can’t believe those are my words. On the internet. Available to the whole, wide, world! (Mwahahahaha!)
After witnessing this bondage spectacle on several occasions, HE suggested that I should clarify all this unfunny business. You know, just in case someone who has never been tied to my office chair stumbles across the site. So here goes:
Life is a serious business, and I take it very seriously.
But I wish I didn’t.
I’m a glass-half-empty, oh-shit-the-sky-is-falling kind of girl.
But I wish I wasn’t.
In the time it takes to buckle my seat belt, I imagine the million ways to die an ugly death while hurtling down the highway in a metal death trap. The worst of these scenarios is the ever-unpredictable-violent-sneeze while navigating a hairpin turn. I don’t want to die with snot on my face.
Here’s another one: Whenever I feed my kids hotdogs, I mentally review how to give the Heimlich. The kids find this disturbing.
“She has that look on her face again.”
“Yeah, it’s like a cat squatting in a litter box.”
“Is she gonna fart?”
I try to explain that the look on my face is abject terror, but my throat is so swollen with fear that I can’t speak, let alone eat my hot dog.
You get what I’m saying. The world is a scary place. The economy is in the toilet, politics are in the sewer, unemployment is up, and judging by the spam in my inbox, penises are way, way down. Gloom and doom abounds.
I recently had my first panic attack. I was watching TV and eating cookies (a pastime I rate second only to sex). Halfway through a luscious chocolate chip I realized I couldn’t breathe. I raced downstairs and told my husband.
Concerned, HE asked, “Is your mouth open?”
I decided right then that the world needs more levity. I vowed to write something levitationous and share it with the world. I would be a voice in the darkness! I would bring laughter to the depressed and gloomy masses of the world! There was only one problem:
I’m not funny.
And so I created unfunnyme.
FYI: A few houseguests and one cable repairman recently filed restraining orders against me. My lawyer advised that I find some new methods of getting readership. I took his advice and spent three hours rearranging my office so that the monitor sat facing out the window.
Mr. Hilarious pointed out that since our house sits a half-acre from the road and is surrounded by trees, I’d be lucky if even the squirrels noticed it. What a killjoy.
I returned my office to its natural state, but I’ve left my computer tuned to unfunnyme.com 24/7.
Just in case a random person or repairman happens by.
My name is Gigi and I am a victim. I have been subjected to the torture of being duck-taped to her office chair and made to read/look at what she finds interesting on the computer. ALL while she stands over me reading aloud…pointing out the obvious…because, I assume, she thinks I don’t get the humor, significance, etc. Perhaps she just thinks I am dumb or maybe dyslexic. Time and time again I have asked myself why I keep putting myself in the same situation over and over and over again??? The only reason I can come up with is that I am an addict. I just have to have my TMarie “fix” because I love her so. Funny or not as she may be. P.S. To feed her incessant need to be in control, I will let TMarie designate my “unfunny” name.
She’s a compulsive liar. To my lawyer: “Hand to God this woman has NEVER been duck-taped to my office chair. There was an incident with some hand-cuffs though…” And I don’t have control issues – and just to prove it – pick your own !@#$%&* unfunny name!
See what I mean??? Control freak…INSISTING I pick my own unfunny name…Does the woman ever quit???
Now you stop that or I’ll get out the duct tape again…
I’m not saying I doubt you, but why is Mr Hilarious called Mr. Hilarious?
Can I get an example of a funny of his?
I also have a Mr. Hilarious…He likes to wipe away a pretend tear when I say something unfunny…
like what I said was so unfunny it made him cry.
Jackass. There, that may be it! Men are funnier because they’re meaner?!
I think I can be very funny, but it’s ALWAYS when I’m not trying.
And, perhaps, people are laughing at my funniness and not about my funnyness?
My head hurts, I gotta git off this crazy thanggggggg!
I completely do not understand how such a scaredy cat could survive the military.
Please explain why you’re not on anxiety meds!
The Unfuniontology cult does not condone the use of such medications.
Diving into that glass of water because that’s half full of water 😉