All I do is have fun. When I'm not working, it's about making

Host: The setting sun spilled through the tall windows of a downtown bar, turning the floating dust into golden sparks. The music was low, a soft blues rhythm humming in the air. Bottles caught the light like silent witnesses to too many forgotten stories.

Jack sat at the far end of the counter, a half-empty glass before him, the ice melting slow, like time hesitating to move on. His posture was tired, but his eyes were alive — restless steel, always scanning, always thinking.

Across from him, Jeeny sat cross-legged on the tall stool, a quiet smile on her lips, a small notebook open in front of her. The barlight traced her face, softening the edges, illuminating the quiet fire that lived behind her eyes.

Pinned between them on a napkin was a single quote, written in slanted pen strokes:

“All I do is have fun. When I'm not working, it's about making people laugh. I love making jokes about things. Even when someone's mad at me, I'll deflect anger with humor. My days are filled with laughter. If I'm not laughing, I'm not happy.”
— Drew Fuller

Jeeny: (smiling) “You’d like him, Jack. He sounds like the kind of person who makes life feel a little lighter.”

Jack: (takes a sip) “Or the kind who hides behind punchlines.”

Jeeny: “You always assume people who laugh are hiding.”

Jack: “Because most of them are. Humor is just another kind of armor — shinier, sure, but it’s still meant to deflect.”

Host: The bartender drifted away, leaving only the clink of ice and the low drone of a distant radio. The air between them thickened with something heavier than the music — memory, perhaps, or the quiet ache of truths waiting to be said.

Jeeny: “I think it’s more than that. Laughter can be medicine, not just a mask. Haven’t you ever felt it? That sudden burst that shakes the darkness off you, even if just for a second?”

Jack: (leans back) “Sure. But it fades, doesn’t it? The moment you stop laughing, the void rushes back in. It’s like trying to plug a leak with confetti.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s not meant to fix the void. Maybe it’s meant to remind you it’s okay to feel joy, even when the void exists.”

Jack: “That’s poetic, but naïve. You think someone who spends their life making jokes isn’t running from something? Look at Robin Williams — he was a genius at laughter, and it still couldn’t save him.”

Host: The mention of the name hung in the air like a soft explosion — brief, brilliant, then gone, leaving behind a faint echo of sadness. Jeeny’s gaze drifted to the condensation ring forming beneath her glass, a perfect little circle — fragile, temporary.

Jeeny: “Maybe laughter didn’t fail him. Maybe the world did. Maybe no one thought to look past the smile.”

Jack: “Or maybe he just couldn’t bear the weight anymore. You can’t laugh your way out of the human condition, Jeeny. The joke always ends. The stage lights always go dark.”

Jeeny: (quietly) “And yet… he made millions of people feel alive. That has to count for something.”

Jack: “Sure. But tell me this: who made him feel alive?”

Host: The question lingered, heavy and unkind in its honesty. Outside, the city was coming alive — voices, cars, the soft buzz of neon lights flickering on. But inside the bar, the stillness between them deepened, an unspoken space where both humor and sorrow could coexist.

Jeeny: “You sound like someone who’s forgotten how to laugh.”

Jack: “No. I laugh when it’s funny. I just don’t use it as a weapon.”

Jeeny: (grinning faintly) “That’s what I love about humor — it can be a weapon or a bridge. Depends on how you use it.”

Jack: “Most people use it to avoid feeling anything too real.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that’s okay sometimes. Maybe that’s what keeps them alive. My father used to tell jokes when he was dying — really bad ones. We’d all laugh, even when we were crying inside. I think he knew that if he could make us laugh, he could make us forget the fear, even for a heartbeat. Isn’t that a kind of grace?”

Host: Her eyes glistened, the kind of shine that comes not from tears, but from holding them back. Jack looked down, tracing the rim of his glass, his reflection shimmering in the amber liquid.

Jack: (softly) “Grace, huh? Maybe. Or denial dressed up in charm.”

Jeeny: “You make it sound sinful to want to be happy.”

Jack: “It’s not sinful. It’s just… exhausting. All this forcing of laughter, this pretending everything’s okay. You can’t laugh your way through a funeral.”

Jeeny: “Haven’t you ever been to an Irish one?”

Host: He almost choked on his drink. She smiled — a small, victorious curve of her lips. For a brief moment, the weight lifted, replaced by something warmer, more alive.

Jack: (laughing softly) “You’re impossible.”

Jeeny: “No, just human. I think that’s what Fuller meant — that laughter isn’t denial. It’s rebellion. It’s saying, ‘You won’t take my joy, no matter what you do to me.’”

Jack: “So laughter as defiance?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Like in war, when soldiers tell jokes in the trenches. Or in cancer wards, when people make fun of their own bald heads. It’s not about escape — it’s about power. About saying, ‘I still get to decide how I feel.’”

Jack: “That’s… actually kind of brilliant.”

Host: The barlight dimmed further, sliding into a soft orange glow. Outside, the rain began — light, steady, like the world trying to apologize for its noise.

Jeeny: “You hide behind sarcasm too, you know.”

Jack: “Yeah, but mine’s self-defense. I don’t aim to make people laugh. I aim to keep them from getting too close.”

Jeeny: “And that’s the difference. People like Fuller — they open themselves up, even if it hurts. They turn vulnerability into humor, and that’s… brave.”

Jack: “Or foolish.”

Jeeny: “Or both. Most brave things are.”

Host: A moment of silence — not awkward, but reflective, like a pause in music when the listener holds their breath. Then Jack spoke again, his tone lower, slower, almost tender.

Jack: “You know… when I was a kid, my mother used to laugh a lot. Loud, contagious, the kind that filled a house. Then after my father left, she stopped. The house got quiet. I think that’s when I started cracking jokes — just to fill the silence. Maybe you’re right. Maybe laughter is rebellion. Maybe it’s survival.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s both. Maybe it’s the closest thing we have to hope.”

Host: She reached over and touched his hand — not as comfort, but as understanding. Outside, the rain softened into a rhythmic tap, like distant applause for something the world rarely honors: two people finally telling the truth.

Jack: (grins faintly) “So what do we do now, philosopher of the funny bone?”

Jeeny: “We laugh, I guess. Not because we’re fine, but because we’re not. And it’s better than crying alone.”

Jack: “You’re impossible.”

Jeeny: “You said that already.”

Host: He laughed then — not sharply, but deeply, like a man rediscovering a forgotten sound. And she laughed too, and soon the bar seemed to laugh with them — the bottles, the walls, even the trembling light in the glass.

Host: The camera drifted slowly backward, catching the faint reflection of their laughter in the mirror behind the bar. Two silhouettes, framed by warm light and falling rain, still arguing with the world — not by fighting, but by laughing in its face.

And as the scene faded, Drew Fuller’s words echoed softly, like a refrain:

If we are not laughing,
we are not living.
And if we are not living,
we are not free.