This Column is Not for your Enjoyment

This morning, I came across some shocking information. Apparently, the whole idea of this humor column thing is for me to entertain you.

Yes, you heard me. This column is supposed to be for you. I'm supposed to entertain you. I know, it's ridiculous. Why in the crappity crap would I spend my free time entertaining you? That idea, by itself, is extremely comical. Ha!

I mean, even if I were to attempt such a thing, I doubt you, intelligent reader, would believe it. Me, doing a column simply so you can be entertained? Come now. Would you believe me if I came to your door and said, "Hello, please accept this pitcher of Tang and large basket of lightly-buttered toast, free of charge"? Of course not! You'd think the items were diseased or something.

The same goes for this column. If I announced that I was writing this column for your enjoyment, you'd probably think there was something wrong with it, or something wrong with me.

Right. Okay. Anyway, here's another reason: how do I know that you want to be entertained? It's not like I'm just going to start entertaining you without your permission. It would be extremely rude of me to try to alter your psychological balances without first getting your consent. I mean, you could be at perfect Zen, totally at ease with your life and your surroundings, and then you'd read this column and totally screw it up. Something like that might be the beginning of a hideous roller coaster ride of manic-depressive behavior. I'm not about to be held responsible for your sick, perverted behavior.

And besides, if I just walked up to you on the street and started telling you jokes, you'd think I was weird, crazy, mentally ill or a homeless person from Los Angeles. Entertaining people without their permission is just wrong, and I won't be a part of such things. Behavior like that is the reason why mimes get the crap kicked out of them so often. Someone juggling for random people is disconcerting enough, but when the person wears clown makeup, dresses all in black and is only pretending to juggle, the average person really has no choice but to punch them.

Another problem with me writing this column to entertain you is that it's simply not true. I won't lie to you, reader: I'm doing this column for two reasons: money and poonany. "What's poonany," you ask? Take a look outside my apartment at the long line of lovely ladies waiting to get in to see me. That's poonany, dear reader.

As for the money, take a look at my column. Look at all the ads that litter the pages here. Those ads are worth hundreds of dollars each, and the money from them is all mine. And the salary I get from the Reader Weekly for allowing them to print my column is just another part of my massive profit. Don't believe what you hear on the street. The editor of the Reader Weekly is filthy rich, and my salary (along with the catering I require them to send to my apartment when I'm writing this column) makes Dave Barry's paycheck look like tips from a good day as a personal butt wiper.

And that goes for George Will's salary, too. I own George. George is my ho. When George or anyone else tries to step up to me, I say, "Hey, you got a beef with me? Then let's go steak it outside!" That's when they get scared. That's when they turn and run.

God, I'm cool.