I have a very silly sense of humor. I've never laughed harder in

In the words of Paula Poundstone, “I have a very silly sense of humor. I've never laughed harder in my entire life than seeing someone with toilet paper stuck on the bottom of their shoe.” What seems at first like a light confession of amusement hides within it a profound truth about the purity of laughter and the innocence of joy. For in a world burdened with sorrow, complexity, and pride, there is something sacred in the ability to laugh at the simple absurdities of life. It is not foolishness that she speaks of—it is wisdom disguised in silliness, the understanding that humor, even in its simplest form, is the medicine of the soul.

The ancients taught that laughter was the sound of the soul remembering its freedom. They believed that the gods themselves had a sense of humor, for creation is filled with contradictions and playful surprises: the peacock’s cry from so glorious a creature, the child’s babble that turns into wisdom, the old man who finds joy in a child’s game. When Paula Poundstone delights in something as simple as toilet paper on a shoe, she reminds us that joy does not always dwell in grandeur—it often lives in the small, foolish moments that reveal our shared humanity. Silliness, in this light, becomes divine, for it strips away vanity and reminds us that we are all gloriously imperfect.

Think of Diogenes the Cynic, the philosopher who mocked the pretensions of his age. When Alexander the Great visited him, the conqueror asked, “What can I do for you?” Diogenes replied, “Step aside; you’re blocking my sunlight.” The crowd laughed, but within that laughter was liberation—the joy of seeing power humbled by wit. Like Poundstone’s silly humor, Diogenes’ jest was not cruelty, but clarity. He saw the ridiculousness of human pride, and through that recognition, he taught that truth often wears the mask of foolishness. Sometimes, only the “silly” can remind the world to take itself less seriously.

There is a kind of courage in silliness—a courage to be unguarded, to risk appearing foolish in order to stay connected to life’s gentler side. Many seek sophistication in their laughter, believing that humor must be sharp, dark, or intellectual to be worthy. Yet Paula’s laughter, born of something so simple, carries a deeper strength: it is humility made joyful. To laugh at such a thing is to embrace imperfection, to find beauty in the clumsy and the ordinary. It is to say, “We are all human, and that is enough.”

In times of sorrow or anger, the silly laugh becomes a lifeline. History remembers Charlie Chaplin, who in an age of war and despair, made the world laugh at tripping feet, runaway hats, and spilled soup. His humor, like Poundstone’s, was born of innocence yet carried the power of healing. When he played the fool, he gave the weary heart permission to breathe again. From his silent films rose a truth that words could not reach: that even amid suffering, laughter can reclaim the soul.

The lesson, then, is clear. Do not despise the simple laughter or the silly joy, for they are the purest gifts of life. When you laugh at small absurdities, you train the heart to remain soft in a hard world. When you find humor in the trivial, you disarm pride and invite lightness back into your days. Such laughter is not escapism—it is resilience wrapped in delight. It teaches us that peace is not found in solemnity, but in the grace to smile at our shared clumsiness.

So, dear reader, take this teaching to heart: let your laughter be silly and sincere. Laugh at yourself when you stumble, and laugh with others when life turns absurd. Seek not the grandeur of wit, but the gentleness of joy. In that laughter, you will find humility, healing, and connection. For as Paula Poundstone reminds us, wisdom need not always wear a crown—sometimes, it walks with toilet paper stuck to its shoe, and smiles.