As decided by my two irreplaceable parents, Howard and Coretha, I was raised Catholic, and I’ve quickly become the poster child for “Chreasters.” That’s the term for Christians who only attend Church on Christmas and Easter. I didn’t bother locating a Catholic church after arriving here in Charlottesville four years ago; indeed the only time I go is when I’m home in order to appease my parents/convince them I’m no heathen. I’m not an atheist. I’m agnostic (ah the Canada of belief systems). I preach the gospel of, “I don’t know!” I can’t explain the technology behind texting, so who am I to definitely assert the existence of a divine creator? What I do believe in and undeniably assert is Comedy. Comedy is my God. Weird, I know; I’ll explain (probably very poorly so lower your expectations tremendously).
Comedy is certainly a coping mechanism. We are fearful creatures. Whether it’s spiders, snakes, a cracked iPhone screen, missing a party (FOMO is so real y’all), a woman’s right to choose, racism, Ebola, or death we fear, we attack and repel these things with humor, for better or for worse. We wield its serviceable nature to our advantage.
Comedy is underappreciated as a craft and skill in contemporary society. Creating it is an endeavor as challenging as any other. In his book, “Outliers: The Story of Success,” Malcolm Gladwell asserts, “Researchers have settled on what they believe is the magic number for true expertise: ten thousand hours.” Essentially he says that it takes roughly ten thousand hours of practice to achieve mastery in a field, “to be a phenom so freakishly awesome, such a standout among your peers, that sometimes your first name is enough to tell people who you are: Peyton. Tiger. Venus. LeBron. Oprah.” Those that cause us to laugh consistently — Will Ferrell, your dad and his stupid dad jokes, your drunk hammered uncle at Thanksgiving, Tina Fey (go Hoos), the bus driver you see every Monday/Wednesday/Friday en route to your 8 a.m. class, The Yellow Journal staff, improv comedy groups on Grounds — these people are virtuosos. While we recognize and venerate (and handsomely pay) people on TV, film, Internet and radio (just kidding, who the hell still listens to the radio and why?) who make us laugh, we should also appreciate the craft of comedy. We must analyze it as intensely as we do Shakespeare — perfect it like we did Penicillin.
But Cam, why do you deify Comedy? How is Comedy your Savior? Because I earnestly believe that Comedy (along with education and empathy) will save mankind. Aspirational, a bit simplistic, quite optimistic and seemingly naïve maybe, but that’s what I believe. It’s what I turn to during ordeals, not to be ignorant or dismissive of reality, but instead to confront it in a way in which I understand.
T.S. Eliot remarked on what would become his celebrated poem, “The Waste Land,” dismissing it as nothing but, “the relief of a personal and wholly insignificant grouse against life…just a piece of rhythmical grumbling.” I lack a Nobel Prize in Literature and I’m no poet laureate (although I once wrote a Shakespearean sonnet about masturbating), but this column was indeed a bit of rhythmic grumbling, at least in structure. I swear to Comedy God I spent two weeks drafting, writing, and revising this thing and it still reads like a verbose jigsaw I sloppily strung together the night of the deadline, while operating on a cocktail of Adderall, Mountain Dew and a few swigs of Mr. Evan Williams. This column began with me lampooning my crumbling Catholicism and finished with my heartfelt manifesto on how to alleviate the unerring afflictions of humanity. I honestly did not anticipate such an odd trajectory. This is why you start with an outline my fellow students! I’m an English Lit major; I should know better. (Oh how I will have disappointed Professor Levenson and Professor Cushman!)
Hopefully this provoked introspection and reflection. More importantly I hope this provoked a laugh. Or maybe a mild chuckle. Perhaps a wry smile. Possibly you read this and did that thing where you audibly blow air through your nose. At the very least someone reading this did that thing we all do where we mentally accept something is funny, but we don’t commit to a physical reaction like laughing. But seriously, confront, talk and ruminate the terrifying things in your life and the world at large. Use tragedy to appreciate life and the comedy flowing through it. We are in this together, friends and strangers alike. Tell your family you love them. No, don’t text them; call them, just this once. Embrace your friends not only after you’ve just downed that third Fireball shot, but when you’re sober too. Smile at strangers as you hold open the door (and if you’re the person walking through the door someone just held open you sure as shit better say thank you and smile back. I’m serious — that’s some selfish BS). Laugh until you cry and cry until you laugh. We control very little in this life, less so than we think, so let’s focus and expend our energy producing meaning, joy, and most importantly, laughter for ourselves and for each other. If you’re unsure how to start my advice is to begin with dick jokes. Eventually you can upgrade to even better dick jokes.
Cam Smith is a Humor Writer.
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