Seriously Funny

The other day, as an act of field research before writing this foreword, I visited the Humour section of my local Barnes & Noble here in Dallas, just to see what our humorists have been up to. It was a Monday afternoon in October, and while the day seemed perfect for lazily browsing a bookstore, the place was mostly empty. Everybody was off at work or school or doing whatever else normal people do at 2 p.m. on a workday while us literary layabouts snoop around bookstores with no intention of actually buying anything. 

After getting briefly distracted by a paperback copy of the latest Sally Rooney novel, I remembered my assignment—my self assignment—and went looking for the Humour section. It was harder to find than I expected. Eventually, I had to ask an employee for help. As I did, I experienced what can only be described as a sudden and unexpected bout of readerly embarrassment.

‘I read real things, too,’ I found myself wanting to blurt out. ‘I’ve read all six volumes of Knausgaard. I’ve read Septology. I own, and have every intention of someday reading, Infinite Jest. I know how to pronounce Barthes and Goethe and have had at various times, for various durations, a paid subscription to The Paris Review.’ 

What I wanted, I mean, was for this guy to take me seriously. 

It was a shameful impulse, really, especially for a dedicated reader, and sometimes writer, of humour. I consider myself a guy who takes humour seriously. Why, then, did I feel the need to distance myself from it? The answer became clearer as the employee led me to the Humour section, which was hidden off to the side, over where they keep the board games, Sudoku puzzles, and educational kids’ toys that never look any fun at all. It was in the part of the store where the other exiled genres live. The Film/TV/Music section. The cookbook section. The section with all those travel guides to cities I’ve never heard of and will never visit. And it was here, among all these red-headed step-children, that I found the Humour section: a slim area no bigger than a single bookshelf. The only thing more depressing than where it was located was what I found once I was there. Comedian memoirs seemed to be popular here. As were joke books, fake encyclopaedias, and all sorts of other cringe-worthy, hacky shit that felt calculated by marketing departments and algorithms.

The Essential Compendium of Dad Jokes was on prominent display.

Effin’ Birds: A Field Guide to Identification.

A photo book featuring well-dressed dogs that called itself ‘A CELEBRATION OF CANINE CULTURE!’ 

It was a depressing sight, but I’m glad I saw it. It reminded me of the strict and pointless line we draw between humour and ‘serious’ literature, often keeping them as far apart as possible.

As if humour can’t be literary. As if literature can’t be funny.

What to do, then, with a book like the one you’re holding now? A book of literary humour? A book of humorous literature? A book that is both serious and funny at the same time? Our poor bookstores won’t know what to do with themselves.

In the promotional materials I was sent along with a galley of this book, I saw that it had been described as ‘handy’. I loved that. Handy. It brought to mind first-aid kits or toolboxes: things you keep nearby in case of emergencies. For me, literature—and funny literature in particular—has always functioned this way. There’s a medicinal quality to it. There’s an urgency. When a beloved family member passed away recently, it was Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse-Five that I reached for instinctively, the same way I used to blindly reach for Advil from my nightstand after a night of heroic and idiotic drinking. During the pandemic, I read and then re-read and then re-re-read Catch-22, Me Talk Pretty One Day, A Fan’s Notes, and Speedboat, which most people don’t find funny, but I think it’s hilarious. For years, I’ve kept a copy of Welcome to the Monkey House in the glove box of my car, next to the ratchet set and roadside flares.

Handy indeed. 

The stories and essays in this book don’t pull any punches. They’re not tossed-off jokey pieces, nor are they stick-in-the-mud literary slogs. Here, you’ll meet a God who’s just gotten their first period, an English teacher who chokes on a piece of candy while meeting with his new boss, a man who tries Viagra for the first time with some unexpected results. You’ll find stories about marriage, work, life, and love. These stories are serious. These stories are funny. These stories are—let’s just say it already—seriously funny. 

What a gift. 

After my depressing visit to the Humour section, I needed a pick-me-up, so I wandered across the street to a coffee shop called The Frogg. I ordered a plain black coffee and sat out on the patio. It was the first nice day we’ve had in Dallas since April. Sunny and cool with a light breeze. I opened a PDF of this book on my phone and began thumbing through the stories at random. I meant to just get a feel for it, just enough to think of some clever things to say here in the foreword, but soon enough—as often happens with great literature—I was sucked in. I was gone. I sat there for I don’t know how long, reading story after story, laughing quietly to myself as the world around me went on with its business. 

Mike Nagel is the author of Duplex and Culdesac, both from Autofocus Books. His essays have appeared in The Rumpus, Passages North, DIAGRAM, Little Engines, D Magazine, and The Paris Review Daily. Mike’s essay “Beached Whales” was a Best American Essays 2017 Notable Essay. He lives in Plano, Texas. Find selected nonsense at www.beefham.com.