A pun is the lowest form of humor, unless you thought of it

In the realm of laughter, where wit and folly walk hand in hand, the wise humorist Doug Larson once spoke a truth both playful and profound: “A pun is the lowest form of humor, unless you thought of it yourself.” At first, his words may seem lighthearted—a simple jest about wordplay—but beneath their surface lies a deep reflection on human pride, creativity, and the curious delight we take in our own cleverness. For in this single sentence, Larson captures the paradox of humor itself: that what seems simple, even foolish, to others can feel divine when it springs from our own mind.

The pun, that ancient art of twisting language to reveal double meanings, has long been both cherished and mocked. In the courts of kings, jesters once used puns to tease power, to speak truth under the veil of laughter. Yet scholars and critics often scorned it as childish, calling it the lowest form of humor, too easy, too light, too dependent on mere words. Larson, however, lifts this old judgment and turns it on its head with a smile. For he reminds us that humor is subjective, and what truly delights us is not always the height of sophistication, but the spark of recognition that we ourselves have seen what others have missed. To create a pun is to play with the fabric of language—to see, in a single phrase, two truths where others saw one.

Consider the story of Oscar Wilde, the great wit of the Victorian age, whose every sentence seemed a dance between meaning and mischief. When told that a man had been found guilty of bigamy—having two wives—Wilde replied, “That’s nothing; some of us have had twenty.” It was a pun, quick and light, yet it carried layers of irony, humor, and commentary on human weakness. Such is the magic of the pun when born from wit—it turns simplicity into surprise, and the hearer into a co-conspirator in laughter. But had another man said the same words without timing, grace, or spirit, the remark would have fallen flat, dismissed as foolishness. Thus Larson’s saying proves true: we judge not by form, but by the hand that shapes it.

Beneath his humor, Larson teaches a subtler lesson about the ego and the joy of creation. When we make a pun ourselves, we feel the rush of invention—the moment of insight where words align in unexpected beauty. It is not the pun itself that delights us, but the reflection of our own mind in its making. That is why even the simplest joke seems brilliant when we craft it, and dull when we merely hear it. The delight is not in the sound of laughter, but in the spark of discovery. It is the joy of saying, “Ah! I found it.” Thus, the quote is not only about humor—it is about the nature of human vanity, and our longing to be creators, even in jest.

In the grand tapestry of wisdom, there is balance in this insight. Humility and humor are brothers; each keeps the other from ruin. The one who can laugh at his own cleverness, yet not cling to it, has found the middle path. The one who scorns all simple humor risks losing his warmth and humanity. And the one who worships his own wit too much becomes pompous—a fool draped in intellect. Larson’s jest, then, becomes a mirror: it shows us both our silliness and our splendor.

We see this reflected in the story of Abraham Lincoln, whose humor, though plain, was profound. When accused of being “two-faced,” Lincoln smiled and said, “If I had another face, do you think I’d be wearing this one?” It was a pun, humble and self-deprecating, yet it carried the power of kindness and wisdom. His humor disarmed anger, softened division, and revealed his soul’s humanity. It was not the loftiness of his jokes that made him beloved—it was the sincerity behind them. So too, Larson’s words remind us that laughter need not be high or low, noble or crude; it need only be true.

So, children of laughter and light, take this lesson into your own hearts: do not scorn simplicity, for even the smallest jest can carry great meaning. Rejoice in your own wit, but do not let it grow into pride. Find humor not only in mastery, but in humility—in the shared laughter that bridges souls. And when you make others laugh, remember: it is not the height of your cleverness that matters, but the warmth of your spirit.

For in the end, as Larson teaches, humor belongs to all—and whether it be lofty or lowly, polished or punning, it is the laughter we share that makes life lighter. So laugh often, create freely, and if your humor be called “the lowest form,” let it be said with joy—for it is better to be a humble bringer of smiles than a solemn keeper of pride.