I was never funny. I'd be funny once a year at Christmas. I'd do

Host: The bar was half-empty, lit by the amber glow of neon signs and the tired rhythm of an old jukebox humming somewhere near the back. Rain tapped against the window, blurring the city lights into a watercolor haze. The night was slow — the kind of slow that invites honesty.

At the counter sat Jack, a half-finished drink in his hand, staring into it like he was searching for a punchline. Across from him, in a cracked red leather booth, Jeeny watched him — elbows on the table, chin resting on her palm.

It was late enough that the world outside felt like it had stopped listening.

Jeeny: “You’ve been quiet tonight.”

Jack: (smirks) “That’s funny.”

Jeeny: “Is it?”

Jack: “No. That’s the problem.”

Host: The bartender passed by, wiping down the counter, pretending not to overhear the kind of conversation that makes the air heavy.

Jeeny: “You used to be funny.”

Jack: “Used to be.”

Jeeny: “What happened?”

Jack: “Life.”

Jeeny: “That’s not an answer.”

Jack: “It’s the only one that fits.”

Host: The light from the jukebox flickered blue across his face. He looked older in that glow — not by years, but by miles.

Jeeny: “You know, Carlos Mencia once said, ‘I was never funny. I'd be funny once a year at Christmas. I'd do impressions of how people talked and danced, but that stopped when I was about 11.’”

Jack: “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

Jeeny: “You think people just… stop being funny?”

Jack: “No. I think some of us just stop trying.”

Jeeny: “Why?”

Jack: “Because somewhere along the line, you realize laughter doesn’t fix anything — it just hides it.”

Jeeny: “That’s not true.”

Jack: “Isn’t it? We laugh to survive. We joke so we don’t have to bleed in public.”

Jeeny: “But you used to find joy in it.”

Jack: “Joy’s expensive. I couldn’t keep affording it.”

Host: The bartender placed another glass in front of him without asking. Jack didn’t look up.

Jeeny: “You know what I think?”

Jack: “You’re about to tell me anyway.”

Jeeny: “I think you didn’t stop being funny. You just stopped believing you had the right to be.”

Jack: “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Jeeny: “It means when people grow up with pain, they think joy is a luxury — like something they didn’t earn. So they bury it before anyone can take it away.”

Jack: “You’re giving me too much credit. I wasn’t deep enough to think that far.”

Jeeny: “No, you were just young enough to feel it.”

Host: The rain outside thickened, drumming harder against the glass — nature’s applause for confession.

Jack: “You ever notice how the funniest people are the saddest?”

Jeeny: “Always.”

Jack: “Why do you think that is?”

Jeeny: “Because humor’s a shield. Every joke is just truth wearing a disguise.”

Jack: “Then maybe I ran out of disguises.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe you ran out of things to hide.”

Jack: “You make it sound noble.”

Jeeny: “No. Human.”

Host: He turned on his stool, facing her fully now. There was no humor left in his smile — just the faint ghost of it.

Jack: “When I was a kid, I used to make my mom laugh. It was the only time she’d forget everything. For a minute, the bills, the fights, the exhaustion — gone. I thought maybe that was my job. To keep people from remembering how bad things were.”

Jeeny: “And when did that stop?”

Jack: “When I realized the act worked too well. She’d laugh, and nothing would change. The pain just… waited.”

Jeeny: “So you quit the act.”

Jack: “Yeah. The world doesn’t need another clown.”

Jeeny: “You’re wrong. It needs exactly that — someone who can make people laugh honestly. Someone who’s not pretending laughter fixes everything but still believes it’s worth sharing.”

Jack: “You sound like someone who’s never been laughed at.”

Jeeny: “No, I sound like someone who learned to laugh through. There’s a difference.”

Host: She sipped her drink, the ice clinking softly — a punctuation to the quiet between them.

Jeeny: “You know what I love about Mencia’s quote?”

Jack: “What?”

Jeeny: “He wasn’t really talking about humor. He was talking about innocence — about the moment life stops feeling like play. For him, that was at eleven. For you, maybe it was later. But it’s the same story. The first time the world laughs at you instead of with you — that’s when something changes.”

Jack: (softly) “And you can’t get it back.”

Jeeny: “Not the same way. But you can rebuild it. Humor evolves, Jack — like people. It stops being escape and starts being expression. The trick is not to chase the child you were, but to forgive the man you became.”

Host: The jukebox song ended. The silence after felt sacred.

Jack: “Forgiveness, huh?”

Jeeny: “Yeah. That’s where the laughter comes back.”

Jack: “You think I can still be funny?”

Jeeny: “You were never not funny. You just mistook sadness for maturity.”

Jack: “That’s poetic.”

Jeeny: “It’s true. Most adults confuse numbness with wisdom.”

Host: A laugh — small, genuine — escaped him then. It was quiet, but real.

Jack: “You know, I don’t even remember the last time I laughed without irony.”

Jeeny: “Then let’s start small.”

Jack: “How?”

Jeeny: “Tell me something true.”

Jack: (after a pause) “I’m tired.”

Jeeny: “Good. Now tell me something funny about that.”

Jack: (thinks) “I’ve been tired for so long, I’m starting to think exhaustion’s my spirit animal.”

Jeeny: (grinning) “See? Still got it.”

Host: The sound of her laughter filled the space between them — soft, golden, alive. And for the first time in years, he didn’t flinch at it.

Jack: “You know, maybe Mencia was right. Maybe I was only funny once a year. But maybe that’s okay.”

Jeeny: “Why?”

Jack: “Because maybe once is enough — if you mean it.”

Host: She smiled at him — that quiet, knowing smile that could undo walls without asking permission.

The rain outside slowed to a whisper, the bar’s lights glowing warmer now, softer — like a stage light that didn’t demand performance, only presence.

And in that still moment, laughter returned — fragile, imperfect, but real — not as escape, but as connection.

Jeeny raised her glass.

Jeeny: “To the eleven-year-old who thought laughter could save the world.”

Jack: (raising his glass) “And to the adult who finally realizes it still might.”

Host: The glasses clinked. The rain stopped. And somewhere between sorrow and humor, they rediscovered the strange, sacred rhythm of being human.

As the jukebox restarted, the night held their laughter — unpolished, unforced — proof that even pain, when shared honestly, can learn to smile again.

And in that warmth, Carlos Mencia’s words echoed not as regret, but as revelation:

“I was never funny. I'd be funny once a year at Christmas. I'd do impressions of how people talked and danced, but that stopped when I was about 11.”

Because maybe we don’t stop being funny —
we just forget the courage to laugh from the places that hurt.

And someday, when the silence softens,
we remember that humor isn’t a mask —
it’s a mirror,
reflecting the parts of us brave enough
to still find light.