Funny is an attitude.

Host: The bar was dim, half-swallowed in neon blue haze. A slow jazz tune wound its way through the smoke, curling around half-empty glasses and tired laughter. The clock above the bar ticked past midnight, but no one cared — time had long since loosened its grip on this place.

Host: At the corner booth, under the dull glow of a flickering sign that read “Open Late,” Jack sat with a whiskey in one hand and a half-smile on his face. Across from him, Jeeny stirred her coffee, the steam rising like a veil between them. The conversation had started as a joke — and like all jokes worth telling, it had turned into a truth.

Jeeny: (grinning) “You ever hear what Flip Wilson said? ‘Funny is an attitude.’”

Jack: (chuckling) “Yeah, and so is trouble.”

Host: She laughed — a quiet, genuine sound, the kind that made the bartender glance up for a second.

Jeeny: “You think he was wrong?”

Jack: “Not wrong. Just incomplete. Funny isn’t an attitude, it’s a shield. People use it to deflect, to survive. You don’t laugh because life’s funny — you laugh because it’s unbearable.”

Jeeny: “You make it sound like a disease.”

Jack: “Sometimes it is. Comedy is just pain that learned how to dance.”

Host: The light flickered again, reflecting off the mirror behind the bar, where a dozen other faces sat like ghosts — laughing, pretending, performing their small acts of survival.

Jeeny: “You ever notice how people who joke the most are usually the ones who hurt the deepest?”

Jack: “Sure. Look at Robin Williams. The man could make a crowd explode in laughter, and then he’d go home and stare into the dark. That’s not an attitude, Jeeny. That’s a mask.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s both. Maybe the mask is the attitude. The way you choose to face it.”

Host: Her words hung there — soft, yet heavy enough to shift the mood. Outside, the rain had begun, tapping gently on the window, tracing tiny rivers down the glass.

Jack: (smirking) “So what, you think being funny is a choice? Like putting on a hat?”

Jeeny: “No. More like deciding how to stand when the ground keeps shifting. Some people cry; others crack jokes. Same storm, different umbrellas.”

Host: Jack laughed — low, rough, genuine this time. The kind of laugh that carried a history.

Jack: “You sound like my therapist.”

Jeeny: “Maybe she’s funny too.”

Jack: “No, she’s expensive.”

Host: Their laughter met in the middle of the table, brief and bright, cutting through the fog like a flare.

Jeeny: “You know, Flip Wilson wasn’t just talking about comedians. He was talking about life. Funny people see the same chaos as everyone else — they just tilt their head a little.”

Jack: “Yeah, like when the world’s on fire, and someone says, ‘At least it’s warm.’”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s an attitude. It’s not denial — it’s defiance.”

Host: The bartender walked past, wiping the counter, humming softly to himself — an old swing tune about luck and loneliness. The neon light cast the room in strange colors, flickering red, then purple, then a tired yellow that made the shadows breathe.

Jack: “You really think humor’s defiance?”

Jeeny: “What else would it be? It’s how people fight back when they can’t win. You can’t stop the absurdity of life, but you can mock it — and that’s power.”

Jack: “So the joker’s the real rebel?”

Jeeny: “Always. Every good comic is an anarchist in disguise. They see the lies, the rules, the pretenses — and they laugh in their faces.”

Host: Jack leaned back, exhaling smoke, the ash trembling at the tip of his cigarette. The rain outside grew louder, washing the city’s sounds into a blurred hum.

Jack: “So when Flip Wilson said, ‘Funny is an attitude,’ maybe he meant — it’s how you survive the nonsense.”

Jeeny: “Or how you transform it. You take what hurts, twist it, and give it back with a smile. That’s not just funny, that’s alchemy.”

Host: Her eyes met his — warm, alive, understanding. The air between them hummed with the subtle electricity of two people who both knew what it meant to laugh instead of break.

Jack: “You ever think that’s why people fall for comedians? Because they make the truth bearable?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. Or maybe we just fall for people who can make light out of the dark. It’s rare — like finding a match in a storm.”

Host: The music changed — the old jazz faded into something softer, more nostalgic. The bartender dimmed the lights a little further.

Jack: “You ever use humor like that? As a shield?”

Jeeny: “Every day. Especially when I’m scared. I smile, I joke — and it gives me just enough distance to breathe. You?”

Jack: (nodding) “Yeah. I laugh so I don’t punch something.”

Jeeny: “See? That’s it. Different shapes of the same attitude.”

Host: The clock ticked past one. The rain had become steady now, steady as their breathing.

Jack: “So what are you saying, Jeeny? That being funny is… courage?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Quiet courage. The kind that doesn’t look heroic. The kind that stands up in the middle of madness and says, ‘You won’t take my smile.’”

Host: Jack said nothing for a while. He watched the raindrops trace down the glass, each one catching a fragment of the streetlight, like tiny moving stars.

Jack: “Maybe that’s why the best jokes make us cry too. Because they’re not just about laughter — they’re about endurance.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Funny isn’t what you say. It’s how you carry the world.”

Host: She reached across the table, her hand brushing against his — a simple, quiet gesture. The kind that spoke volumes more than wit or words ever could.

Host: The bar had emptied out now, leaving only them, the bartender, and the faint music curling into the night.

Jack: (softly) “Funny is an attitude.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “And sometimes, it’s the only one that saves you.”

Host: Outside, the rain finally eased. The neon light steadied, glowing steady red across their faces. Jack finished his drink; Jeeny closed her notebook.

Host: The camera pulls back through the window, past the reflection of the glowing sign, into the wet street beyond — where the city still buzzed, indifferent but alive.

Host: Two figures remained inside — a man and a woman, sitting across from each other, still half-smiling at the absurdity of it all.

Host: And as the scene fades, the last words linger like a punchline whispered into the dark:
“Funny isn’t a joke. It’s how you keep living.”