Some people say funny things, but I say things funny.

“Some people say funny things, but I say things funny.” — thus spoke Don Rickles, the master of wit whose voice could pierce like a sword and yet leave laughter in its wake. In this brief and brilliant line lies the essence of his genius — and a timeless truth about the power of presence, the art of delivery, and the unique spark that separates imitation from authenticity. Rickles, known to the world as the “Merchant of Venom,” understood what the ancients knew well: that the power of words lies not merely in their content, but in the spirit with which they are spoken.

When Rickles says, “I say things funny,” he draws a line between the wit of the mind and the wit of the soul. There are those who craft clever words — sharp, polished, adorned with intellect — and then there are those who carry laughter in their very being, who make humor not with phrases but with presence. Rickles’ genius was not in composing jokes, but in becoming one with the rhythm of laughter. His timing, his tone, his fearless spontaneity transformed ordinary words into living sparks. The ancients would have called this the gift of charisma, the divine breath that makes speech come alive and moves hearts beyond reason.

The philosophers of old, too, understood this mystery. The orator Demosthenes once said that the three secrets of persuasion were “delivery, delivery, and delivery.” Words by themselves are lifeless; it is the human voice, the gesture, the soul behind them that gives them power. Rickles, though he lived centuries later, embodied this truth. He could insult a king and be loved for it — not because his words were gentle, but because his intent was pure. His humor was born of connection, not cruelty. Like the jesters of the ancient courts, he held a sacred role: to tell the truth through laughter, to disarm through mockery, and to remind the mighty that all men are equal before humor.

Consider how the poet Aristophanes of Athens wielded satire in his plays. His lines were fierce, even scandalous, yet the people laughed not in anger, but in recognition. Like Rickles, Aristophanes understood that laughter, when delivered with sincerity, becomes a mirror — it reflects truth without bitterness. The funny saying may make one chuckle; but when one says things funny, when one’s entire being becomes the instrument of humor, laughter turns into wisdom. It opens the heart and humbles the spirit. It reminds us that joy, like truth, cannot be faked — it must be lived.

Rickles’ quote also carries the whisper of humility. In calling attention not to the things he says, but to how he says them, he acknowledges that the art of comedy — like all true art — lies in authenticity. The ancients would have said this is the mark of the “whole soul,” the person whose outer action and inner being are aligned. Rickles did not pretend to be funny; he simply was. His humor flowed not from calculation but from character — from the fearless honesty of a man who dared to be himself, fully and unapologetically, in every breath.

From this, a lesson emerges not only for comedians but for all who seek to communicate truth. The message alone is not enough; one must embody it. To speak wisely, one must live wisely. To inspire, one must burn with the same fire one hopes to kindle in others. Whether one’s gift is laughter, leadership, or love, the true power lies not in the content of one’s words, but in the spirit that carries them. It is not what we say that moves the world, but how we say it — and whether our speech flows from sincerity or from performance.

Therefore, let this teaching be passed down: Cultivate the art of saying things funny — not just funny things. Speak not only with wit, but with warmth; not only with cleverness, but with courage. Let your tone, your timing, your manner of being reflect the truth within you. Do not chase humor or wisdom; let them arise naturally from the life you live. For those who live truthfully will always speak powerfully, and those who carry joy within will always bring laughter without. Don Rickles, in his disarming simplicity, reminds us of an eternal truth: that in all art — and in all living — it is not the form that endures, but the human spark that gives it life.