A fellow who has a funny bone can learn to hone his skills, but I

Hear, O seekers of laughter and craft, the words of Carl Reiner, master of comedy and storyteller of the human heart, who once said: “A fellow who has a funny bone can learn to hone his skills, but I don’t think you can develop a funny bone – you either have it or you don’t. And by the way – when you get it, we don’t know it.” Though his words are wrapped in wit, they contain a wisdom as old as art itself—the mystery of innate talent, the humility of the artist, and the divine spark that breathes life into creation.

Reiner, whose genius shaped the golden age of television and whose humor flowed effortlessly across generations, speaks here of the gift of comedy—that rare alchemy of instinct, timing, and truth that cannot be taught by rule or reason. The “funny bone,” as he calls it, is not merely the capacity to tell jokes, but the sacred sensitivity to human absurdity, the ability to see the hidden music in life’s chaos and translate it into laughter. It is the soul’s awareness that life, for all its suffering and solemnity, is also beautifully, tragically, hilariously human.

When Reiner says one cannot develop a funny bone, he speaks to a truth the ancients knew well: that some gifts are woven into the fabric of a person’s being. Just as the poet is born with an ear for rhythm and the painter with an eye for light, the comedian is born with an inner sense for laughter’s rhythm—a compass that points not north or south, but toward joy. Such a gift cannot be manufactured by study alone; it must awaken within, often without the bearer’s knowledge. That is why Reiner adds, almost playfully, “when you get it, we don’t know it.” The true artist is rarely conscious of the magic they possess—it flows through them like a hidden river, effortless and unseen.

Consider, for example, Lucille Ball, one of the greatest comedians of the 20th century. Before her fame, she was told by her teachers that she had “no future” in entertainment. And yet, when she stepped before the camera, her genius revealed itself—not as a calculated act, but as instinct, a perfect fusion of timing, physicality, and heart. She did not learn to be funny in the deepest sense; she simply was. What she later refined—her delivery, her expression, her craft—was the honing of a gift that already burned within her. So too did Reiner and his peers understand that training sharpens the blade, but soul forges the steel.

Yet, let not Reiner’s words be mistaken for exclusion or despair. He does not say that art belongs only to the gifted, but that authenticity is the root of all mastery. To be “funny” is not to imitate what others laugh at, but to discover what laughter means to you. Those without the natural “funny bone” may still move others through truth, empathy, or wisdom—each person has their gift, and the world is richer for their differences. The key, as Reiner teaches, is not to chase what others possess, but to refine the seed planted within yourself. For one man may be born a comedian, another a poet, and another a healer—and all are sacred in their purpose.

Reiner’s final remark, that “when you get it, we don’t know it,” is also a lesson in humility. The truly gifted rarely boast of their gift, for their art feels as natural as breathing. The moment one becomes too self-aware—too intent on being funny—the laughter fades. Humor, like beauty, withers when forced. The wise comedian laughs with life, not at it; they are a vessel for truth, not its owner. Reiner, who lived his life creating joy for others, understood that the greatest artists are servants of their gift, not masters of it.

Therefore, O children of craft and spirit, take this teaching to heart: seek not to be funny—seek to be true. If laughter flows from your truth, let it. If it does not, then let your gift take its own form, for every honest voice finds its place in the symphony of creation. And if you are among those blessed with the “funny bone,” remember what Reiner reminds us: nurture it with discipline, wield it with compassion, and never mistake it for your own invention. The gift is not yours alone—it is the universe laughing through you.

In this way, Carl Reiner teaches us not merely about comedy, but about life itself. We are each born with a spark—something that cannot be taught, only revealed through living. Your task is to find it, to honor it, and to use it in service of others. For the “funny bone,” like all true gifts, is not given for pride or profit—it is given to heal the weary, to unite the divided, and to remind us all that even in sorrow, there is joy; even in failure, there is laughter; and even in the fragility of life, there is something eternally, gloriously human.