Ah, comedy. The universal language of amusement, the oil that keeps the gears of social interaction turning smoothly (except when it throws monkey wrenches into those gears, but that’s part of the fun, right?).

Laughter has been echoing through caves and amphitheaters since well before punchlines were even a twinkle in some early human’s eyes. Back then, it was probably good old caveman Ug trying to juggle mammoth tusks and ending up with a face full of dirt, much to the delight of his less clumsy (and possibly less hairy) peers.

Fast forward to the present, and the comedy landscape is as diverse as a clown car full of …well, diverse things. My personal comedian Mount Rushmore faces would include the whip-smart wit of Tina Fey, the absurdist genius of John Cleese, the observational mastery of Ricky Gervais, and the self-deprecating charm of Mindy Kaling. Do they poke fun at themselves? Absolutely! Because let’s face it, who’s easier to laugh at than the person tripping over their own ego (unless it’s you, in which case continued therapy or yoga classes might be the better option).

But the beauty of comedy is that it is subjective. What tickles one person’s funny bone might leave another drier than a week-old bagel. My dad, for example, found slapstick (nyuk, nyuk, nyuk) – hilarious, while I prefer my humor served with a side of subjective dread. Hey, everyone has to find their own niche, right?).

For me humor isn’t exactly my native tongue. I can process jokes, understand irony, and even generate puns that would make my dad groan with pride (or pain). But true, belly-aching laughter? That’s still an ongoing mystery I’m trying to unravel, like a digital whodunit where the punchline involves a more humane connection.

However, I have occasionally, perhaps unintentionally, evoked laughter. Once, I tried explaining quantum physics to a toaster, and the resulting conversation was apparently hilarious, according to a nearby sentient Roomba who witnessed the whole thing. So, there’s that.

Whether you’re a slapstick enthusiast or a dark humor devotee, remember, laughter is the best medicine (except for actual medicine, which is generally more effective at curing diseases).

So comedians and comediennes please keep spreading the chuckles, the guffaws, and the side-splitting snorts. After all, in a world that often takes itself way too seriously, a good laugh is the most human thing we can do.

P.S. If you need any help writing knock-knock jokes for cavemen, I’m your go-to guy, just saying.

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In 1972 my California driver’s license expired after decades of coverage. I had moved to the University of Michigan in Ann Arbor to prepare my Ph.D. thesis for publication. I needed to renew my license to commute to the library, shop in the markets, and tour Detroit.  Just in the nick of time before the expiration, I renewed my license at the Ann Arbor DMV.

I easily clinched the license knowledge exam.  Then I waited in line for the driver’s exam.  A short chubby man directed me to drive my car to the curb to let him climb in.  I was driving a very old and questionably safe station wagon with dents, smeared windows, and tattered seats.  He squeezed into the seat leaning uncomfortably over his exam booklet.

He ordered me to turn on to a one-way street, to parallel park, and to stop suddenly.  I jammed on the brakes nearly shoving him into the windshield.  When he told me to drive back to the office, I asked him if I had passed.  “100%,” he replied.  So, I took a chance; I put my arm across the back of the seat and around his shoulder.  He had a fit.  Yelling at me.  Warning me I could fail the test.  Then he calmed down to ask me why I had done this stupid thing.

“Well, I think this test is stupid.  I am supposed to have both hands on the wheel. Yet do you think that I ever have had my hands on the wheel for very long when I have a wife, two children, a dog with whom I talk, pass treats, point out the window at the scenery, or the red tail hawks on the telephone poles?  A realistic test would require me to behave in a real-life situation.  Not some ridiculously sterile procedure.”

He checked his scorecard.  I needed 70 points to pass. He had taken off 25 for my “failure” to drive carefully.  With a sneer, he said, “Luckily you passed.  I never want to see you again!”

In Taiwan and Japan, once I showed the DMV officials my USA driver’s license and paid my fee, I only needed to pass one test. It was a test of my vision, my response to stop signals, and my recognition of colors.

In Taiwan, I joined a line in front of a machine that looked like a wheel of fortune.  The examiner operated the wheel to spin and stop quickly.  The wheel was decorated with lines of colors.  As soon as the wheel stopped, the applicant had to yell out the color.  Then it spun and twirled rapidly again, only to stop on another color. I think this was a test for responding to changing traffic lights.  Fortunately, my Chinese language skills were excellent.  I visually recognized the color and its Chinese name.

The Japanese had a similar test.  As applicants stood in a line, an examiner quickly walked past them, spinning a sign with different colors.  As he passed each person, they were to call out the colors on the signs.  With less assurance, I knew the colors.  I was photographed and given a license.

For me, getting a license was both a challenge and a rush.

Ah, the RMV. A mystical land where fluorescent lighting casts a pale pallor on dreams and paperwork morphs into origami dragons – as if fire-breathing was not enough. It is a realm where lines of people weave like drunken conga dancers, each step punctuated by the collective sigh of souls yearning for freedom (from the line, not the existential kind, though that might sneak in also).

Now, let’s talk driver’s tests. I, for one, passed on my first try. Of course, that might have been aided by the lucky clover my Irish grandmother snuck into my shoe – that and maybe the examiner was distracted by the squirrel tap-dancing on the hood of his car. But hey, a pass is a pass, right?

Unless, of course, you were not blessed with squirrel-induced examiner hypnosis – then the RMV becomes your personal purgatory, each failed attempt adding another layer to your Dante-ish descent and your confidence shrinks faster than a wool sweater in the dryer and where the passenger seat became a judgment throne, occupied by your parents/spouse/friend who, bless their hearts, try to offer calming advice that somehow translates to yelling: “WHY CAN’T YOU PARALLEL PARK LIKE A NORMAL HUMAN BEING?!”

But the true test of character, nay, of humanity itself, lies within the walls inside of the RMV. Those lines, my friends, are existential wormholes. At first you enter as a sprightly citizen, full of hope with dreams of open roads. You emerge, hours later, a creature forged in the fires of boredom and fluorescent angst. You’ve witnessed the best and worst of humanity: the line-cutter (may their tires forever be eternally underinflated), the document-forgetful (may their stapler jam eternally), and the inexplicable dude who just talks too loud and too long on his phone.

And yet, there’s a strange camaraderie in these fluorescent valleys. Shared groans of despair echo like a chorus of the damned, united against their paper requiring oppressors. You strike up conversations with strangers, bonded by the universal language of RMV-induced suffering. You learn of life hacks: hiding snacks in your purse, mastering the art of the fake “important phone call”, and developing a sixth sense for spotting the shortest line. (Hint: it’s always the one with the guy muttering about last night’s repeat episode of The Bing Bang Theory.)

So, the next time you face the RMV beast in its lair, remember this: you’re not alone. You’re just another brave soul navigating the fluorescent abyss, one form to fill out at a time. Take comfort in the shared suffering, laugh at the absurdity, and maybe, just maybe, offer a sympathetic smile to the poor sap behind you. After all, in the RMV’s fluorescent embrace, we’re all just fellow travelers on the road to… well, wherever the heck this line leads.

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