By Danny Hankner

 

 

There was a lot of virtue packed into my dad – patience, kindness, humility – and though I didn’t come by those naturally (if ever?), there was one crowning achievement that passed through the bloodstream unhindered: his sense of humor. But where my dad would make dry comments about the morbid or perverse, or sneak guilty looks (as if they were nips from a flask) at all the wrong times, I simply belly-flopped off the deep end of absurdity; gathering all my buddies, like some depraved mother hen, to order 200 McChickens from the McDonald’s drive-through, donning a monkey mask and hopping out of the van in the middle of traffic on Halloween and banging on randos’ windows (really, I’m lucky to be alive), or dragging a used toilet around town, dropping trough and pretending to take dumps in all the public squares.

 

My youth was the height of witticism, lemme tell ya.

 

Though my juvenile machinations have died down, my enjoyment of them – like a proud father – has not. There’s both a magic and a utility to humor, for it makes fast friends, deescalates explosive situations, instantly hooks and engages audiences everywhere. Why? Because – outside of the most sad-sac bitter humans – everyone likes to laugh. You see, humor is medicine – you might even say therapy for broken souls.

 

But not everyone has it.

 

Is there anything worse than some unfunny schmuck cracking unbearable jokes on (any) stage? You know the type, hovering in close, forcing their tractor-beam eye contact after a real doozy, and demanding, silently, with will and soul, that you laugh, laugh, laugh! “Haaaa,” you wheeze, like some tortured martyr on the pike, because you know it’s wrong, a lie of sorts, to courtesy laugh at sub-mediocrity.

Because there’s nothing more honest than laughter.

 

Sure, there are different styles and a multitude of preferences, but that’s used as a crutch by the unfunny far more than it is an accurate assessment of when things don’t work. Remember my guiding ethos, dear writer: greatness always engenders an audience.

 

I’ve thought about this – about comedy – for a very long time. How much is nature vs nurture? Can the comically sterile ever truly become funny? And how much work is required, regardless of where you fall on the savant scale? These are questions beyond my pay grade, but in all my years of making others titter, I’ve conjured up a technique that will help all writers regardless of satire pedigree.

 

I call it the joke that always lands.

 

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Now before we dive into this, first, let’s address the elephant comedian in the room:

 

Howie Mandel once said that “comics are people who say funny things, and comedians are people who say things funny.” That makes me a comedian, at least in Howie’s eyes. What my painfully average-sized brain lacks in witty material, my elastic voice and absurd facial expressions more than make up for. But that puts me at a serious handicap in writing. How can I make the magic of my voice sing on the paper? How can I puncture those dramatic pauses, those looks, that miasma of high-voltage facial contortions onto the page?

 

The cold, hard reality is that I can’t. And that’s probably why many writers (and even more editors) will tell you that comedy is much harder on paper than it is in real life. And these editors will often steer you away from it if you’re not already ‘a natural’. “Because comedy is so subjective,” they will lament, now more than ever with our increasingly compartmentalized society. And though I agree with that sentiment in, say, public speaking, in writing - though harder - these hurdles can still be overcome!

 

Just as there are many ways to skin a cat, so are there many ways to execute comedy, but I’m going to zero in on how to land the one joke that never fails. No matter your style or natural ability, this little doozy always hits the mark. What is it?

 

The inside joke.

 

Yeah, right, you say. I'm writing to an audience unknown – and even if I “know” my audience, I can’t possibly tell an “inside” joke that all of them will get!

 

Well actually, you can. The key here is naturally developing the joke and the lead-up within the context of the story, not just slapping an untethered punchline on a confused reader and hoping he gets the reference. In this way, it doesn’t matter who your reader is! Age? Not a problem. Gender? Doesn’t matter. Economic status? Country of origin? Favorite pizza topping? All are null and void when you build the entire bit from the dust of your mind.

 

So how does this work?

 

This is the point in the article where I bombard you with examples to prove that I’m not a raving lunatic my point. However, this is going to be a touch difficult, because either A – I have to give a brief summary so you can understand (and thus do the exact opposite of what I’m trying to convey), OR I have to toss out an example and hope it's borne on winds you’re already familiar (also in contrast to my earlier words!)

 

What’s a boy to do?

 

Since you’re a card-carrying Member, let’s try a third, unlikely option, one where we hope and assume you’ve been paying attention to our content. But if not, then fear not! Little reading is required, for the examples are easily accessed, and the audio is free to listen! This is your homework:

 

 

Look, there are all kinds of examples out there if you keep your eyes peeled. Inside jokes are everywhere, whether lifting a comment made earlier at a dinner party to riffing off the insane world around to a stranger while waiting in line at the supermarket. The more you notice them, the more you’ll understand them, and the more you understand them, the more you’ll use them. Especially now that you wield the power to create your joke that always lands. And land it will.

 

But why, you ask? Why is this so potent?

 

You see, it’s the same dynamic that makes endings that refer back to the beginnings so powerful. It’s the feeling of coming full circle, of coming home, because now we’re not just telling a joke, we’re making the audience feel like they are a part of the joke, and thus a part of the very fabric of the story itself.

 

And if you’ve learned one thing from me – or rather, from Michael Scott - it’s that everyone wants to be a part of one.

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