What I find funny are peoples' blind spots. That's the funniest

In the words of Sam Richardson, “What I find funny are peoples' blind spots. That's the funniest thing about anybody — when they just don't realize who they are. What's funny about seeing a hippo do ballet is it thinks it's a swan.” Within these words lies not cruelty, but revelation — for the humor of blindness is the mirror through which we see our own folly. Richardson’s laughter is not the laughter of mockery, but of understanding. He reminds us that the essence of comedy, and indeed of wisdom, is found in the gap between who we are and who we believe ourselves to be.

Since the dawn of thought, the sages have known that self-ignorance is among the most ancient of human conditions. The Greeks named it hubris, the pride that blinds the soul to its limits. When Oedipus sought truth, he could see all but himself — and therein lay his tragedy. Yet in Richardson’s view, this blindness is not only tragic; it is also profoundly human and, in a gentler way, profoundly funny. For to err is to live, and to laugh at our errors is to rise above them. The hippo that thinks itself a swan is not merely ridiculous — it is a reflection of all of us, struggling to dance through life with grace, unaware of our own clumsy grandeur.

In the ancient plays, the fool was always the one who saw most clearly. Shakespeare’s jesters, with their quick wit and gentle mischief, unmasked kings and courtiers alike. They laughed not to humiliate but to illuminate — for laughter is light, revealing what pride hides. Richardson stands among them in spirit. His observation pierces the illusion that we are fully self-aware. We stumble, we posture, we pretend — and through it all, the universe smiles, patient and kind. It knows that in our blindness lies both our comedy and our potential for awakening.

Consider the story of Diogenes of Sinope, the mad philosopher of Greece. He walked through Athens with a lamp in daylight, declaring, “I am looking for an honest man.” The people laughed, thinking him absurd, yet it was they who could not see their own hypocrisy. Diogenes was laughing too — not at them, but at the human condition itself, at the blindness of mortals who cannot see their own vanity. This is the laughter that Richardson speaks of: the laughter that comes not from superiority, but from recognition.

The origin of this wisdom lies deep in the understanding that laughter and humility share the same root. To laugh at others without cruelty is to recognize oneself in them. We are all the hippo in the ballet, moving awkwardly yet sincerely, hoping our effort will make beauty real. The tragedy would be not in the clumsiness, but in denying it — in insisting we are swans while refusing to learn grace. Richardson’s humor is thus compassionate: it invites us to laugh gently at ourselves, to see our blind spots not as shame, but as opportunities for insight.

The lesson here is profound: self-awareness is the beginning of wisdom. When you can see yourself truthfully — your strengths and your absurdities alike — you are freed from the tyranny of illusion. The man who can laugh at his own blind spots is already enlightened, for he no longer fears being seen. But the one who hides behind pretense, who cannot bear to see his own reflection, becomes the very joke he dreads. To know thyself, as the Oracle of Delphi commanded, is not to be perfect, but to be honest — and to smile kindly at the imperfections that make us real.

Therefore, my friends, learn to laugh at your own blindness. When you stumble, laugh. When you discover that you were wrong, rejoice — for you have gained sight. When pride whispers that you are a swan, remember the hippo, and let humility guide your steps. To live with awareness is noble; to live with humor is divine. Together they form the wisdom that sustains both the wise and the joyful.

For in the end, Sam Richardson’s truth is not about comedy alone — it is about enlightenment through laughter. Life itself is a grand play, filled with players who believe they know their roles, while the cosmos looks on, smiling. To see ourselves clearly, to laugh without cruelty, and to grow without shame — that is the true dance. It may not be the ballet of swans, but it is the beautiful, awkward, human ballet of becoming.