I stumbled upon it when my audiences claimed that, because I can make them laugh, I’m a comedian.
I’m not. Honest.
In real life, I’m as contemplative as a Tibetian monk.
My wife and children think listening to my jokes is torture. Every time I attempt to tell them a joke, they pray the rosary.
And they don’t even know how to pray it.
On days I play tennis, I sometimes compliment my opponent for his great backhand. When I do that, he melts. He giggles. He smiles. And then he laughs.
Even though I told him a barefaced lie.
So do you see the anomaly here?
I tell a joke, they pray the rosary. I tell a lie, they laugh.
That’s the formula.
So at parties, I transform into another persona. It’s a persona so different from my natural self I don’t even recognize me.
I make this persona tell lies to harvest laughter.
The kids snicker.
“Actually, I’m one of the top 10 magicians in the Philippines.”
Again snickers. This time louder.
“Ok, I’m among the top 50 magicians in the Philippines.”
“Let me correct myself. I’m one of the top 100 magicians in the Philippines.”
Guffaws. Hysterical laughter. Kids in stitches.
Then I tell a joke.
The children fall silent. If they had rosary beads with them, I suppose they would pray the rosary without coaxing.
That’s how I discovered the formula for making people laugh. Don’t tell a joke lest they pray. Tell a lie instead.
Warning: don’t use the formula. It works only for me.