Laughter is involuntary. If it's funny you laugh.

Host:
The theater was nearly empty — the last show long over, the stage lights dimmed, the smell of dust, sweat, and memory still lingering in the air. Rows of velvet seats stretched into shadow, like a field of forgotten faces waiting to laugh again.

At center stage, under a single spotlight, sat Jack, his coat draped over a chair, his hands clasped loosely as if holding something too fragile to name. Jeeny stood a few steps away, still wearing the faint trace of stage makeup — her eyes bright, her expression open, the residue of a smile hovering like the echo of applause.

The world beyond the stage was quiet, but here — in this hollow space — words still carried weight.

Jeeny:
(grinning, quoting softly)
“Tom Lehrer once said, ‘Laughter is involuntary. If it’s funny, you laugh.’”
(She glances toward him, her voice half-playful, half-serious.)
“It’s perfect, isn’t it? The simplest law of the universe. You can’t fake it, you can’t stop it — it just happens.”

Jack:
(smiling faintly) “Or it doesn’t. Which might be worse.”

Jeeny:
(laughing softly) “You would find the tragedy in comedy, wouldn’t you?”

Jack:
(tilts his head) “Isn’t that where it lives? Every laugh starts in the gut — not the head. It’s instinct. Survival. A release valve for being alive.”

Jeeny:
(thoughtful) “Exactly. Lehrer knew that. That’s why he wrote satire like music — logic with rhythm, truth with melody. He knew that laughter isn’t a choice. It’s the body confessing the soul’s recognition of absurdity.”

Host:
The spotlight flickered, humming faintly. A piece of dust floated through it, catching the light like a memory suspended midair.
Somewhere beyond the walls, the city murmured — horns, distant laughter, the pulse of living continuing without permission.

Jack:
(leaning forward, elbows on knees) “So if laughter’s involuntary, does that mean comedy’s a kind of truth serum?”

Jeeny:
(smiling) “Maybe. Or maybe it’s the sound truth makes when it finally slips past pride.”

Jack:
(half-laughing) “That’s poetic. And dangerous. You’re saying humor exposes us more than it entertains us.”

Jeeny:
(softly) “Of course it does. When you laugh, your defenses drop. For a moment, you stop pretending. That’s why laughter feels so... pure.”

Jack:
(nods slowly) “And why it scares people who take themselves too seriously.”

Host:
The silence thickened for a moment, but it wasn’t empty — it hummed, alive with reflection.
Jeeny crossed the stage and sat beside him, her hands folded neatly in her lap. The light softened, spilling gold onto their faces, two shadows caught between intellect and feeling.

Jeeny:
(quietly) “You know what I love about Lehrer? He never begged for laughter. He just... trusted it. If it was funny, people laughed. If not, that was its own kind of truth.”

Jack:
(smirking) “So failure’s honest too.”

Jeeny:
(grinning) “Absolutely. Every silence between punchlines is a moral lesson.”

Jack:
(raising an eyebrow) “You make it sound spiritual.”

Jeeny:
(softly) “Maybe it is. Maybe laughter is the closest we ever get to prayer — involuntary honesty.”

Host:
A draft stirred, carrying the faint scent of the stage curtains — velvet and dust, like time folding in on itself. Jack leaned back, staring at the empty rows — ghostly, waiting, patient.

Jack:
(quietly) “You know, I think that’s why real comedians are philosophers. They make people laugh without meaning to manipulate them. They hold up the absurdity of life and let our bodies decide if it’s true.”

Jeeny:
(smiling) “Yes. Because the laugh is the proof. You can argue with logic — but you can’t argue with laughter.”

Jack:
(softly, to himself) “Because laughter never lies.”

Jeeny:
(meeting his gaze) “Exactly. It’s the sound of truth surprising you.”

Host:
The light above them buzzed, then flickered out, leaving only the glow of the exit sign painting their faces in crimson shadow.
For a long moment, they sat there — still, thoughtful, unafraid of the dark. The sound of the city seeped through the cracks of the building: a cab horn, distant chatter, someone’s muffled laughter carried on the wind.

Jack:
(softly) “It’s strange, isn’t it? How laughter and crying come from the same place.”

Jeeny:
(nodding) “Two sides of the same surrender. Both involuntary. Both honest. Both proof you’re still alive.”

Jack:
(half-smile) “So maybe that’s the whole point — the body reacts before the brain gets in the way.”

Jeeny:
(smiling faintly) “Exactly. That’s why you can’t fake real laughter. The body refuses to lie for the mind.”

Host:
A faint click — the sound technician testing a mic backstage. The echo of it filled the empty hall like the beginning of a confession. Jeeny stood and walked toward the microphone at center stage, her silhouette cutting through the last beam of light.

Jeeny:
(into the mic, softly) “If it’s funny, you laugh. That’s the only truth worth trusting.”

Jack:
(calling from his seat) “And if they don’t?”

Jeeny:
(grins, her voice calm, clear) “Then the joke was too honest for them to handle.”

Host:
A single laugh escaped from somewhere — Jack’s, low and genuine. It bounced off the empty seats, filling the theater with warmth. Jeeny smiled, bowed to the silence, and stepped down.

The camera pulled back, showing them both — two figures dwarfed by the vast dark space, two souls who understood that laughter, real laughter, is the body’s final act of faith in the absurd.

Outside, the city’s lights shimmered, the world still ridiculous, still tragic, still funny.

And as the scene faded, Tom Lehrer’s truth hummed softly beneath it all —

that laughter isn’t a choice,
it’s a revelation:

a flash of surrender
when the soul, caught off guard,
admits — with a breath, a gasp, a sound —
that it has just seen itself.