You shouldn't get too close to the truth, because then maybe you

Host: The night was thin and trembling, draped over the city like a half-forgotten memory. A soft fog rolled through the narrow alleyways, curling around the faded signs of a late-night bar that smelled faintly of smoke, lemon, and regret. Inside, a single spotlight hung above the small stage, its light slicing through the haze like a question too sharp to answer.

Host: Jack sat at the bar, his coat still damp from the rain, a half-empty glass before him. Jeeny sat a few stools away, her hands wrapped around a cup of coffee, steam rising like the soft breath of thought. The faint crackle of an old vinyl record filled the silence — an ancient recording of Bob Newhart’s gentle, nervous voice drifting through the air.

Host: Above the stage, written in chalk, were the words: “You shouldn’t get too close to the truth, because then maybe you stop being funny.”

Jack: “You ever notice how comedians always walk that line? The line between laughter and discomfort — like tightrope walkers above a pit of reality.”

Jeeny: “Because truth makes people uncomfortable, Jack. And humor is the way we peek at it without burning our eyes. But maybe Newhart was right — get too close to it, and you stop being funny. You just start hurting.”

Jack: “Or maybe you start being real.”

Jeeny: “Real isn’t always what people come for. They come to forget the truth, not to face it.”

Host: The bartender wiped the counter in long, slow circles. The clock ticked above them — steady, patient, judgmental. Jack’s eyes, gray and tired, glimmered in the faint light, as if weighed down by memories of his own unspoken truths.

Jack: “Newhart understood something most comics don’t — humor’s a buffer. It’s a disguise that lets people approach something too raw to face. But you strip that disguise away, and suddenly the joke turns into confession.”

Jeeny: “But confession isn’t the enemy of humor. It’s the root of it. The best comedians — Pryor, Carlin, even Newhart himself — they told the truth. Just dressed it up in laughter so people could swallow it.”

Jack: “Exactly. And once the laughter stops working, what are you left with? A man holding a mirror to a crowd that’s already turned away.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe a man who’s brave enough to stand there anyway.”

Jack: “Bravery’s overrated when the crowd doesn’t clap.”

Host: A burst of laughter erupted from the corner, where a young comedian was testing his lines on a friend — too loud, too nervous, the laughter almost desperate. The sound faded quickly, swallowed by the heavy quiet that returned like a tide.

Jeeny: “Do you think the truth kills laughter, Jack?”

Jack: “No. I think laughter is truth’s nervous tick. The closer we get to it, the more we laugh — right up until it cuts too deep. Then it’s not funny anymore.”

Jeeny: “So humor is anesthesia?”

Jack: “Exactly. A local anesthetic for the soul. We don’t laugh because it’s funny — we laugh because it’s safe. Because it lets us look at the world’s absurdity without falling apart.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that the point of humor — to make pain bearable?”

Jack: “Maybe. But the problem is, the closer you get to the source of pain, the harder it is to find it funny. The joke starts bleeding truth. And truth, Jeeny… truth doesn’t punchline.”

Host: The record skipped, the needle catching on a scratch — repeating the same breath of sound again and again, like the past looping in on itself. The light over the bar flickered. The air felt heavy, as if the night itself was holding its breath.

Jeeny: “Maybe the trick isn’t to avoid truth — it’s to dance around it. Like Newhart did. He didn’t preach. He observed. He made the absurd ordinary, and the ordinary absurd. That’s how he stayed funny without being cruel.”

Jack: “You mean he told the truth sideways.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Like an artist who paints through reflection instead of confrontation.”

Jack: “But isn’t that a kind of lie? If you soften the truth, you’re not telling it — you’re decorating it.”

Jeeny: “No. You’re translating it. Truth doesn’t always need to shout; sometimes it just needs to whisper in a funny voice.”

Jack: (smirking) “You sound like you’ve taken a masterclass in divine irony.”

Jeeny: “No, just human pain.”

Host: Outside, a car splashed through a puddle, its headlights cutting briefly across their faces. Jack looked older in that flash — the lines of a man who’d seen too much of the world and laughed too little about it. Jeeny, by contrast, seemed almost luminous, as though she carried light within her to counter his shadow.

Jack: “So what happens when the joke dies? When the truth you’ve been avoiding finally catches up?”

Jeeny: “Then maybe you stop performing and start living. Maybe the moment you stop being funny is the moment you start being honest.”

Jack: “But honesty doesn’t sell tickets.”

Jeeny: “No, but it heals hearts.”

Jack: “Not sure people want to be healed. They just want to laugh and go home.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that’s enough. Maybe laughter is a kind of healing. Even if it hides the wound.”

Host: The rain began again, soft and rhythmic. The record changed sides with a soft click, and the sound of Newhart’s gentle stammer returned — a man stumbling gracefully through human absurdity.

Jack: “You know, maybe Newhart wasn’t warning us about the truth. Maybe he was warning us about ego. That once you start thinking you’re the truth-teller instead of the clown, you stop being funny. You forget humility — and humor dies where pride begins.”

Jeeny: “That’s beautiful, Jack. Because real humor is humble. It doesn’t try to dominate. It invites.”

Jack: “Exactly. It’s not about showing how smart you are. It’s about showing how human we all are.”

Jeeny: “And the moment you think you’ve figured it all out, the laughter stops.”

Jack: “Yeah. Because certainty isn’t funny — confusion is.”

Host: The clock struck midnight. The bar grew quieter, the air settling into the easy fatigue of the hour when truth feels a little closer and laughter feels like a memory. Jack looked up at the quote again, his gaze tracing the chalk letters slowly.

Jack: “Maybe Newhart was saying that truth and humor need each other — but they can’t touch. Like magnets flipped the wrong way. You get too close, and the current breaks.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. Or maybe they touch, but only in flashes. Like lightning — brief, blinding, but unforgettable.”

Jack: “And in that flash, everyone laughs. Not because they understand — but because, for one second, they almost do.”

Jeeny: “That’s what makes it divine, Jack. That’s what makes it funny.”

Host: The fog pressed against the windows, blurring the city lights into soft halos of color. The record ended with a faint hiss — the sound of silence disguised as static.

Host: Jack and Jeeny sat there, the last patrons of the night, two silhouettes framed by the faint glow of a fading joke. The bartender turned the lights down low.

Host: And as they rose to leave, Jeeny turned back toward the stage, where the microphone still stood — thin, solitary, unflinching.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack… maybe truth isn’t the enemy of humor. Maybe it’s the punchline we’re all too scared to tell.”

Jack: (quietly) “Or maybe it’s the one we tell without realizing it.”

Host: The door opened, letting in the cool rain-soaked air. The neon sign buzzed weakly above them — a single word left glowing: FUNNY.

Host: As they stepped into the night, laughter from a distant street drifted faintly toward them — light, uncertain, but real.

Host: And in that fragile sound, truth and comedy met for just a heartbeat — and the world, for once, felt perfectly human.