In praise of the non sequitur

I’ve been told I’m a “funny person.” This sometimes confuses me because I wouldn’t necessarily describe myself as someone inherently inclined to comedy. As I’ve grown older, I’ve become more withdrawn and less brash than I used to be to the point where socializing with dozens of random people at parties fills me with mild revulsion. My minor introversion doesn’t necessarily preclude me from comedy, but I still don’t think I ever try to be overtly funny. There are certainly people I know who try to force feed me jokes. These people make me want to lie down with a cold compress on my head. I couldn’t bear to live in a world of knock-knock jokes and unapologetically inorganic silliness. I’d rather spend my time in the company of people who are effortlessly witty, people who can toss off a one-liner like a casual salutation. However, I’m not either of those things. I’m definitely too reserved to mug for a crowd, and I’ve never done anything effortlessly in my entire life. You can see the cogs turning in my head from a mile away.

I’ve also been told I’m a “funny weirdo.” That sounds about right. My natural humor is insane and surreal, built on non-sequiturs, funny words and sounds, pop culture references and riffs that spiral off into abysses of lunacy. My celebrity impressions are non-verbal—ask me to do my Christopher Walken some time—with the exception of my Katherine Hepburn, and even then, I’ve only mastered the cadence of “Get that leopard out of my foyer!” If you get that reference, we would probably be friends. I enjoy the company of effortlessly witty people, but my ideal posse would be full of my humor clones, so to speak. There’s nothing more I enjoy than sharing a bit or a riff with like-minded friends—our laughs careening off the walls like pogo sticks. 

I’m glad I have a few people in my life who enable me in this respect. In a way, their zero gravity comedy tethers me to Earth.

We, as “funny weirdos,” beget other “funny weirdos.” When I studied abroad in Turkey last semester, my program took several bus trips. If you have ever been on a lengthy bus trip, then you know it is truly hell on wheels. We were hot, hungry and exhausted, and at a certain point, we all descended into a collective fever dream. Over the course of these trips, surreal humor spread like a virus, manifesting itself into bizarre public service announcements starring Carolina Panthers linebacker Luke Kuechly, Medieval card games that ended in tears and trust issues and people eating individual Doritos “Lady and the Tramp”-style because it seemed like the right thing to do. We were a bus full of Mad Hatters, and it was one of the best times of my life.

I recognize humor is subjective. My taste is not everyone else’s taste, and I wouldn’t dream of imposing my predilection for light spritzes of "unhingedment" on people content to remain blissfully normcore. However, weirdness and humor have provided me with insight and a sense of secure individuality that makes me feel a lot more comfortable and sure of myself than some of my peers. It feels great to derive confidence and directional purpose from abject positivity. There’s a sort of exploration and wonder in the pursuit of weird humor that keeps my friends and me on our toes and separates us from the pack. I may not consider myself a funny person in the traditional sense—despite what people say—and I’m at peace with that. Funny weirdos have fun, and the people of this great nation would do better if they added a little surrealism to their day.

Drew Haskins is a Trinity junior and Local Arts editor.