User:Multiliteralist/Rules of Good Humour

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This article's name will be Smaegma Charta

Who was the last Emperor of Pommer, Franz Johann von Umpton? Who invented the submachine? Who - and even more impotently, where - are your colleagues going to see your subtext? Is the end of the work going to come soon, or are we all ready to boil for some centuries more? These, and many more questions, remain unanswered in the course of New psychopractical theorem of Zoölogical pathology, Zeus. What processes have led to compiling all this lack of information in one place remains a serious boner of contention - if anyone has left anything out of this article, the merde-m'aides will certainly be surprised.

Getting scientific in your face

suddenly THE CAR IS REALLY BIG AND IT CRASHES INTO THEIR BALLS LOL LOL

The ladder part of the 21st century is far, far away, Mister!

Out of M. Alice it is is it great to see you hear. What sit then this time? I don't know, you gotta check it out for yourself. I mean - want me to lose you here or would you father I waited for the next stop spot? Bull is a huge carnivalous animal, busting about the marked place with dozens of gallons of sauce across his ice - no mean suite, I mean man - it's a mean fate.

Well whore you then? I axe and you go on to axe plain that you have wanked the earth perforce. Eh you mean there's actual supporting clause to what you are being... should this be the question... yes, I think it shouldn't though? But if you assist, we can always make it so and so.

With a pressed solder iron within the brightest pupil, like marshes bent hubward, a strong face costs multiple hens to the unwary. Of course, if you bring the furthest tiny iron ball all might just turn for the crack, like any harsh mother would know otherwise. If you ever see the priest, tell him from me I will hand a breadcake to every Count who deems otherwise - I once said like a yolk, all creamy and proliferate.

As much, your wry spending caves like diffused menthol, all crab-wards like a fabric doll pressed under the worst plate-machine. One step and you will be the cicada you always loathed the most.

He smiled so much at the constant suggestion of smiling.

Sometimes we need an utter otter to create the the needless to say it as a compromise with the nasal ASD syndrome into a bottle. Wherewithout is the queer going to go if you got the libido packed in such a tight bundle? His arse going to explode for chrissakes, wacth out it's a pimp built like a ton of bricks in his nasal cavity. The sky is blue and so are you, boo hoo.

The above demonstrates a very acute definition to word choice, showing that you can't just be any ignoramus with a dictionary to write good humour. Observe in the first sentence, the author's wit showing right away, the "utter otter" demonstrating a delicious understanding of how words sound next to one another, to produce laughter of the highest quality. It should also be noted that suggesting one can get Asparagus Syndrome in the nasal cavity is quite silly and humourous. His selective use of the term "queer" is sure to garner laughs time and time again. After that, he gives it his all, being as outrageous and spontaneous as humanly possible. Indicated by his typos, showing a rapid style of writing, only given by the most passionate of humour writers. Pimps and skies, oh my!

Compare it, without blinking, to the next example. You should be able to notice how the vehicle for humour is slightly similar, yet totally different. You can almost feel the impending doom in the latter text, which really should not make you laugh at all. In some cases, it doesn't. There are some humour appreciators who have lately laughed so much they just cannot bring themselves to laugh any more. If you are none of these, you should be fairly rolling on the floor. This text has been tested on various occasions, and several noteworthy scientists - among them the famous Able Benneton himself - attest to its effect. The text is beautifully constructed yet lacking any of the stiff feel of having been overworked in any way.

The article the is an arty article in help me! Help me PLEASE HELP ME I have a dinew wart on my nose and it looks like I'll have to use it to open the door! There's also a crocodile munching my nether rod!

The author, in this sample, is clearly using metaphors to describe his innate fear of his basement, or more specifically, what may reside there. It's been theorized that Sir Herbert Gilligan based many of his most acclaimed poems and stories on his (to some) overactive imagination in pondering the particularly frightening denizens of his basement. His petrifying fear is shown with the sense of urgency in which he writes, frantically going, as if his life depended on it, in the manner of an intoxicated HP Lovecraft. It is true that he was, at one time, unintentionally in possession of a crocodile, which constantly was after the cyclopian trouser snake that dwelled in the basement of his house.

You can use naphtha to go afta infant elephants in the afternoon. It's afterburner you mormon! I AM NOT A MORMON! Yes you are, you are a rabbit: Rabbit Keynes Fitzwater. You mean I'm like a soda can? No you can't. Stick a pump in it while you go - we don't need your elk here, nor elsewhere. Wait up - what about Elk Mountain? Yeah take him up there if it's so important to you. And calculate all of it beforehand since otherwise... yes, otherwise...

...otherwise there will be hell to paint. Just like in Tintoretto's classic sculpture performance where he sculpted the same piece for weeks on end until his arms were so sore you couldn't have stuck a needle in them without him wincing. As you observe the proceedings high ho in the hills you cannot fail but to write a note to yourself: "These dudes are so out of it. I'm a million times more proponent than any of these biodynamists." Then you work up into a terrible rage - just to notice that half of your face dropped off by some wacko planning accident by the dude upstairs. You cannot bring yourself to curse him but you know - there are worse thighs than being a slavery slobbery slave.

Pirate stories and such are marvelous breeding vats for humour. The following chapter from the Augustus Tenney novel Surfing in the tar pit is, however, sadly disappointing. The exposition is brilliant, as it always was in his case, yet the execution of the rest of the chapter seems somehow lacking. Why hasn't he given any attributes to his gavel? Imagine how much better the last sentence would be if it read, for instance ...banged his menacing gavel (etc.).

Nunn (the Captain) shivered as he looked over the capschlager into the darkening sea. The monstrous medicarusa had just finished feeding on the rotting corpses of the hapless crew of Arcturus' Balls. Nunn shivered again, this time more forcefully, to drive the horrible apparition away. Then he looked at his watch, banged his gavel a few times and shouted at the top of his lungs: "CASE CLOSED!!"

Sometimes the rules of Good Humour have to be broken for effect. As an example, we have here an anecdót Sir William Pitzwater came up with and rehearsed to delight his friends at parties: weddings, funerals, court sessions.

Pibbidy shtibbidy bobbidy boo, drop your nazi in the goo. He likes it there, related to kangaroos. His hind legs are powerful so he can jump out at any time but his brain tells him to stay in until the war is over. Dibbidy dobbidy shloppity end.

You notice how the anecdót consists of only four sentences, yet its content is remarkably complex. Understanding this magnificent technique is absolutely obligatory if you seriously want to make it as a humourist. Read closely: Pitzwater didn't refer to the First World War here; instead, his idea was to make his listeners laugh at the fact that he meant the Hundred Year War between England and France. Everyone invariably laughed when this was explained to them.