Funny Thing Research Articles

A Funny thing happened on the way to the Forum: Ruminations concerning the disappearance of constructivism and its survival in the farcical mode

Bibliography: Kratochwil, Friedrich: A Funny thing happened on the way to the Forum: Ruminations concerning the disappearance of constructivism and its survival in the farcical mode, ERIS, 3-2016, pp. 118-136. https://doi.org/10.3224/eris.v3i3.27348

Anecdote Text Vs Spoof Text

It is often find understanding about the funny story in our society life. Every funny story is often defined as anecdote. In this term, anecdote is pointing to “cerita lelucon” or “konyol”. Most the story are funny because they have unpredictable funny things in the end. All those types of story are often socially called anecdote and they are going on. However, the unpredictable thing in the end of story which is often funny is called twist. This Twist, in term of text type, belongs to spoof. While in the generic structure of anecdote, we can not find the twist. So it might be the funny story which we often hear in our social life and defined as anecdote story is not the the anecdote text in term of text types we are learning. Commonly it is defined spoof and anecdote are similar, even both are same. Spoof and anecdote tend to be defined as text which relate to funny story and unusual incidents. It can be true as both bring the function mostly to entertain and share to readers. But, actually both are different. Key Words: Text, Anecdote and spoof

A funny thing happened on the way to sociology: Goffman, Mills, and Berger

This article discusses the merits of a sociology informed by humour, linking these merits to sociological issues of representation and the ways in which humour has pedagogical and epistemological relevance for the depiction and construction of the everyday lifeworld. The works of Erving Goffman, C. Wright Mills, and Peter Berger are treated as exemplifying the use of humour in sociological work. Significantly, while having different perspectives on the social world, they all worked within a particular milieu (post-war American sociology) and enjoyed a readership beyond the confines of academic sociology. We argue that humour is an essential element of the everyday lifeworld and that sociology’s task is to highlight the contradictions, paradoxes and ironies in which ordinary social actors live.

The phenomenology of The Funny: a diagrammatic proposal

ABSTRACTThis article proposes a phenomenological diagram for studying funny things. Rather than piecing apart funny artifacts into components that are themselves no longer funny, this approach allows us to keep a situation or a bit of discourse intact such that it can be appreciated while it is being studied. Furthermore, this approach helps us address the fact that funniness is a phenomenon rather than a noumenon and can really only be understood at the level of an individual's interpretive context.

Bethlehem Revisited

Bethlehem Revisited Brian Castner (bio) David Crossman enlisted in the Army soon after 9/11. He wanted to go infantry, but he got good scores on his military entrance exams, and his recruiter convinced him to try EOD instead. EOD is Explosive Ordnance Disposal, the military bomb squad, the guys who disarm all those improvised explosive devices buried in the roads over there. It was my job in the military too. David did two tours in Iraq. On his second, in 2006, our time in-country briefly overlapped. We both served in the north, he in Tal Afar and I in Kirkuk, but we didn’t know each other. David got out of the Army soon after that tour, but he returned immediately to Iraq as a contractor for another eighteen months. He loved the paycheck even more than the work. When he rotated back to the United States he moved to Tampa, found a steady girlfriend, and took a few short-term jobs, cleaning up old bombing ranges in Alaska and Arizona. He bought a house, enrolled in a community college, and partied hard on the beach. In April of 2012, David Crossman died in a motorcycle crash. In July, I published my war memoir, and by the end of that year, the Crossman family had contacted me. [End Page 157] “I have a desire to if you are able to come down to PA at some time so that we could share our son’s life with you,” his father said in a jumbled email. David’s father is also named David. He said that he and his wife Crystal and his son Bryan had all read my book, and in it they found stories of the EOD brotherhood that sounded just like the few David shared after the war. Would I come to Pennsylvania? Would I do a speaking engagement? As a United Airlines employee, he could arrange a ticket. I could stay in his home. “Thank you for allowing us to contact you,” the message ended. When you write a memoir, everyone thinks they know you. They really only know what you chose to share in the book, of course, but if those details are embarrassing or difficult, trials that most of us keep private, they feel like they know enough. This leads people to do funny things: share their own intimate secrets, ask for favors, seek advice, lay their troubles on your door. I got a lot of letters like this. But there is little relief or satisfaction possible in this brief interaction, and most readers intuitively know this; after an exchange of emails, a mutual wish for peace or understanding or healing, we both move on. Realistically, what else is to be done? But the Crossman family was asking for something different, something more, and I admit that the ambiguity of the request made me uneasy from the start. David had texted me “I will meet you at arrivalgate” and I assumed he meant baggage, but I was wrong. When I got off the plane in Newark a man vigorously waved at me from across the concourse, and in that instant every preconception I had of David Crossman evaporated. Looking back on it now, I realize that it was the United employment that threw me. If he could get me a seat on an airplane, I assumed he was a pilot. But the man zigzagging through travelers, hand above his head, matched no such generic mental image. [End Page 158] David Crossman looks like a bulldog who has gotten into one too many fights. His small nose is crushed, pushed upward into his face so that his bridge does a U-turn and his nostrils flare. His teeth are divided into thirds: missing, black, and yellow. His jowls hang. His goatee is long and grey and the short hair on the top of his head is thinning all over. When I met him, he wore a hooded sweatshirt, baggy pants, and beat-up sneakers. His glasses, with nowhere to perch, required constant straightening. He reached out a swollen hand, covered in scars and scabs. I shook it, and David smiled. “How did you get...

Sometimes I’m Suzanne

Sometimes I’m Suzanne Merran Jones (bio) Sometimes he was one. Sometimes they were two. She’d been his first words: “Sometimes I’m Suzanne”—plonked into the room like a fat stone in water, between the baby wipes and nappies. Carly fumbled with her phone, her jaw around her knees. “Kev? Kev! Matthew just said his first words.” “WHAT?” Kev yelled over the white noise of the truck, somewhere between Shitsville and Bum-Fuck Nowhere. “His FIRST WORDS!” “Yeah what?” “He said: ‘Sometimes I’m Suzanne’.” “What? What the fuck’s that mean? Who’s Suzanne?” “I don’t know.” Carly frowned at their baby boy. He grinned and pissed into the air. Sometimes he was one. And would chew his blocks, play with his spaghetti, and tantrum like a boy: a true atheist of discipline. Other times they were two. And Suzanne would wander through Matthew’s brain, from cerebellum to parietal to occipital lobe, affecting each one accordingly. Matthew would strut like a woman; admire Carly’s perfume—Mmm, jasmine. Such a purple, heady fragrance; or comment on a lady’s dress—It really takes the focus off her face. One day, Suzanne milled around Matthew’s somatosensory cortex. He kept talking about the softness of Carly’s nightie and the comfort of his sneakers—feels like I’m walking on clouds. Good choice, Carly. Carly raised an eyebrow at her fourteen-month-old son. ________ “Remarkable.” The specialists all shook their heads. They ordered scans. The mri ingested then spat Matthew out like a sommelier with wine, testing for potential. [End Page 17] Suzanne hid below Matthew’s brain stem and smirked at the doctors’ confusion. “It all looks fine.” They frowned at the images and shook their heads. “Vroom!” Matthew rammed a toy truck into Carly’s foot. They referred him to a psychologist, a psychiatrist, a psychoanalyst, a psychic: any specialist with the prefix ‘psych’. They all peered at Matthew, clipboards in hand, gathering knowledge to themselves like precious nuts for winter. “A genius,” they said. “His language is so advanced.” Matthew blushed and gushed: “Well, good looks and brains can go hand in hand.” “Who is Suzanne?” they asked. “When are you Suzanne?” “Who are you right now?” Matthew giggled and threw his ball. Suzanne tucked herself behind his eyes, making him cast coquettish looks at the young intern. They suggested pro- and anti-biotics, medication, and meditation. “Meditation?” Carly said. “He’s a baby. He’ll just fall asleep.” “Actually, meditation is very effective. As is ‘Yoga for Bubs’.” Carly clutched the boy to her chest. “He’s accessing a past life. He’s hosting another spirit,” the psychic said. “No,” Carly said. “He’s just Matthew who sometimes says funny things.” Matthew winked at the psychiatrist. “I do love that shirt. Really brings out your pecs.” Carly took him home. ________ Sometimes he was one. Sometimes they were two. Matthew grew from two to four to six years old. Suzanne remained an ageing, divorced art therapist with a love for scarlet nails. Carly got sick of finding the couch and her son streaked with red like a scene from Carrie, as he sat there admiring his hands. He’d look up and shrug. “Sometimes I’m Suzanne.” Carly crouched beside Matthew one day. He fiddled with his Lego, eyes on the task. “Matthew, look at me.” “What?” Matthew clicked two pieces together. “Who is Suzanne?” [End Page 18] Click click. “How old is Suzanne?” Click click. Click. Carly sighed and stood. “I’m forty,” Matthew said to her back. “But I’ve been known to pass for twenty-eight.” “Thanks,” Carly said stiffly. Forty: just a few years older than herself. She made the mistake of telling everything to Kev. “He’s a bloody fruit,” Kev moaned down the phone. He’d been on the road four days and was due home in another four, maybe. “He’s not always like that though,” Carly said. “Sometimes he’s just Matthew with boogers and dirty knees and video games.” Sometimes he was one. Sometimes they were two. Kev wasn’t convinced. He nicknamed his son ‘Softballs’. Want to play some softball, Softballs...

The Funny Thing about Secularism

The Funny Thing about Secularism

Hesper

Hesper Pamela Duncan Spring 2009 This love story starts the way a lot of them does—springtime, sap's arising, boy and a girl don't know no better. Starts with Daddy bringing home this boy from town. I knowed C. L. Edwards from school but hadn't seen him since I quit sixth grade. That durn teacher, she wouldn't let me alone, always after me to raise my hand and answer, got onto me if I was the last one in and left the door [End Page 134] standing open. Last time I done that, she said, "Hesper Penland, was you born in a barn?" Well, I tell you, that fired me up good. I looked that old heifer dead in the eye and I said, "Yes, ma'am. That's why ever time I hear a jackass bray I get homesick. So that's where I'm a-going now. Home!" C. L., he set in the back with the older boys, and I remember him a-grinning at me like I just done the funniest thing. I wasn't in no mood to be laughing, though, me not knowing how Daddy'd take it. But he didn't make me go back. Said six years was enough for anybody, especially a girl. I didn't know who it was Daddy had fetched up the mountain that day, even after he rode Hercules right up to the porch where I could see the boy's face good. Daddy hadn't said a word before he left but what he usually said: "Going to town." "This is C. L. Edwards," Daddy said. "He's going to help out." You talk about mad. Daddy'd been saying he needed help, in spite of the fact I worked good as any boy, but I never expected that. If looks could kill, C. L. would've been wounded, the way I stared him down. I knowed better'n to say anything, though. C. L. appeared to have growed some because when they got down off that mule, he stood a good head taller than Daddy. I could tell he'd been a-working outside a lot because even though it was only April his face and arms was brown. His real name was Clingman, named after a mountain. Made me wonder who picked that, and why. Looked like I'd have time to find out. He didn't say a word, just followed Daddy to the barn. C. L. slept in the little room off the barn where we kept tools and saddles and all. When Daddy put him in there, I knowed he wouldn't be around but for the summer. Wasn't no stove out there and would've been too cold for any mortal after September. So C. L. took my place in the fields with Daddy, and I kept to the house and the garden. Let me tell you, I didn't like it [End Page 135] ary bit. I'd worked outside all my life and didn't see no reason to quit. I liked being out from under a roof. But Daddy, he said it was time for me to start acting like a woman and doing womanly things. I argued wasn't no reason I couldn't do both, but he would not back down. C. L. was a good worker, didn't eat too much, so Daddy was happy with him. On Saturday nights C. L. would go home so he could go to church Sunday morning. His family was Methodists. Me and Daddy, we never took to church. I believe Mama used to get him to go, but he wouldn't talk about it, and I can't remember. Most Sunday mornings I'd go up the mountain till dinner time so as not to shame Daddy. He thought I didn't know about the drinking on Saturday nights. The woods, that's as close to church as I ever come. Anywhere under some trees has always felt holy to me. Up here, there's more trees than people, which is as it ought to be. Daddy, he kept a-clearing ground...

PROSE AND POLITICS

1 5 9 R P R O S E A N D P O L I T I C S M O L L Y M c Q U A D E A funny thing happened as I began to read the insistently dispassionate interpretive pages of Adam Phillips’s latest book, Unforbidden Pleasures. I felt an impulsive series of small explosions taking place in my bloodstream. Why? The book carries no subtitle , but I will suggest a couple: ‘‘Disobedience and Its Discontents’’ or ‘‘How (Not) to Make the Rules Work for You in Your Life.’’ Usually I would expect from myself a more measured response to Phillips, following a heady slow ramble through his typically meted ratiocinations, ratiocinations such as ‘‘Originally there were other people we wanted to murder; but this was too dangerous so we murder ourselves through self-reproach, and we murder ourselves to punish ourselves for having such murderous thoughts.’’ While we’re at it, why not also consider an even more adamant adage from his pages: ‘‘Omniscience is always prohibitive; and prohibition always smacks of omniscience.’’ Absolute statements can more easily get away with what they U n f o r b i d d e n P l e a s u r e s , by Adam Phillips (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 198 pp., $25) L i f e B r e a k s I n ( a m o o d a l m a n a c k ) , by Mary Cappello (University of Chicago Press, 408 pp., $29) 1 6 0 M c Q U A D E Y say when they are well written, earnest, and seemingly insightful, because then they sound too pure to fight with. We don’t want to pause to observe skeptically how or why they’re imperfectly fictitious . So is omniscience ‘‘always’’ prohibitive? Not predictably. It can be heartily a≈rmative. Does prohibition ‘‘always’’ smack of omniscience ? Not when, let’s say, a racist beat cop is prohibiting something or someone; prejudice, defined partly by ignorance, is then narrow and narrowing, rather than omniscient. Even by ever so briefly questioning a sentence, I am disobeying the authority at stake in it. With this astute writer, must my e√rontery constitute a forbidden pleasure? I feel like Jane Eyre struggling chastely to refute Mr. Brocklehurst. We both command a kind of purity, and we both fail it. I find myself picturing insolently the person with the pen as one who carries a wobbly tall white powdered wig above his brain; his vest, I know, is flashing. His rhetoric is dimpled, like a story, with subjective partial ‘‘truths’’ and whims embedded, embroidered. I can’t quite trust him. He’s a worthy much too worldly to be heedlessly, ideally honest. How much does he enjoy summoning decorous irony after irony? I don’t know, for he’s British – and a Freudian. All bets are o√, aren’t they? Let me confess, this cerebral sort of authoritarian rigor, even if intended ironically, makes me want to slap someone, whether myself or Mr. Phillips. And perhaps it is the stern mental exertion required to compare, and to keep comparing, forbidden with unforbidden pleasures in his new book that helps get my combustion going. As Montaigne wrote in an essay supposedly titled ‘‘How Our Mind Tangles Itself Up’’: ‘‘It is a pleasant thought to imagine a mind exactly poised between two parallel desires.’’ But how are we to make that mind up? The explosions tickling my bloodstream thanks to Phillips made me want to inspect them, fathom them, test them – and burst into flame along with them. Days later, I still want to do those things. In fact, the ornery, aptly aloof little volume makes me want to do a lot of things; thinking is only one. Has Phillips perhaps accomplished the unforeseeable, composing a moral hownot -to book for the age of Trump? If so, it is fortuitous, since his work was published first in Great Britain in 2015. P R O S E A N D P O L I T I C S 1 6 1 R To me this essayist was, and sometimes still is...

Of Competition

Of Competition Brendan Constantine (bio) or “And the sheeted dead did squeak and gibber in the Roman streets” The act of throwing a body from a window is calledDefenestration. Saying you know thisis called Showing Off. Whether people are born competitiveis still unknown. However, exhaustive researchhas made one thing abundantly clear; every scientistintent upon proving the existence of a “competition gene”wants to be first. The first time I fell out of a window,I was eight and had just won a race against my brother.Indoors. What can I say, I kept going. The second time,I was ten and thrown out by a bad loser. Some peopleget awfully touchy about being told they’re awfully touchy. I beat David Myers in a bread-eating contest, fair andsquare, so he threw me out of his bedroom window. Ibroke two fingers and a flowerpot shaped like a WoollyMammoth. Natural Selection. A funny thing about competition is most living thingscompete without knowing it.A funny thing about competition is humansare the only animals who keep score.A funny thing about competition is how some people say,“It’s not whether you win or lose, it’s where you lay the blame.” My grandmother used to say that. She doesn’t anymore. [End Page 118] Now she says, “There are men under my bed. I hear themall night long. They want to throw me out the window.They want to take my books. Let them try. I’m a light sleeperand I’ve killed a man before.” We’ve told the nurses shedoesn’t mean that last part, but honestly we’re not sure. Just as historians aren’t sure who invented the window.Many now say it was an ancient Roman named Septimus Orthowho first put a square hole in a wall and then covered itwith a pane of glass, sometime during the 100th century ad. The first person to be thrown out of it is believed to bea man named Gaius Publius who, as he fell to earth,famously cried, “Ille rapuit formam meam!” or,“That guy stole my idea!” And then a thousand violinsbegan to play and a thousand golden trumpets did rendthe Roman air. You know the funny thing about competition?In German it’s spelled with a K.A funny thing about competition is it’s lonely.A funny thing about competition is some peoplebelieve competition gets to have its own roomin the brain and doesn’t have to share with anyone. But that may not be true. It may have to sharewith a twin sibling known as caution. Last August, scientists in New Zealand announcedcompetition and caution not only reside togetherin the frontal lobe, they have bunk bedsin the Anterior Cingulate Cortex. It’s tight in there; they fight all the time. And whenthey’re not fighting, they’re racing,racing through the house. [End Page 119] It’s a race to the windows and each time there’s notelling who’ll win. In America, jumping from a window isamong the least common forms of suicide, accounting forjust 2%. Remarkably this puts it just 1% above payinga five-year-old to poke you to death with a cocktail sword. In Hong Kong, self-defenestration is a clear favorite,accounting for over 52%. I don’t mean it’s a competition,but if it were, some might say it’s fixed because they havemore skyscrapers and no guns. The funny thing aboutcompetition is even when it’s fixed, it isn’t certain.For example, Albert Camus who said there was only one philosophical questionthat needed answering: Should I stay or should I go?Albert Camus who gave us The Fall, The Stranger,The Myth of Sisyphus, who preferred to do all his writingwhile standing at a lectern. Albert Camus who was killedin a car wreck on his way to Paris. Before leavingProvence that day, he wrote postcards to his wifeand each of his mistresses, same message four times,“Longing to...

From Rehab to Recess

From Rehab to Recess

Humour is a Funny Thing

his paper considers the question of how immoral elements in instances of humour affect funniness. Comic ethicism is the position that each immoral element negatively affects funniness and if their cumulative effect is sufficient, then funniness is eliminated. I focus on Berys Gaut’s central argument in favour of comic ethicism; the merited response argument. In this journal, Noel Carroll has criticized the merited response argument as illegitimately conflating comic merit with moral merit. I argue that the merited response argument, and hence comic ethicism more generally, is vulnerable to Carroll’s criticism only if the comic ethicist fails to distinguish between three closely-related but distinct concepts; humour, amusement and funniness. By providing separate accounts of these three concepts, I explain how Carroll’s criticism is unsuccessful. In summary, accepting my distinctions between humour, amusement and funniness makes it clear that comic ethicism is the right position.

A funny thing happened on the way to mass subjugation: propensity, opportunity, and irony in two accounts of the crime decline

This article first uses the analytical lenses of crime opportunity, criminal propensity, and routine activity theory to evaluate Wendel et al.’s (2016) plausible and compelling “more drugs, less crime” hypothesis, the latest attempt to explain the crime decline that began in the 1990s. The authors’ present exposition of the hypothesis is beleaguered by methodological problems that jeopardize the validity of its central claims. An alternative media-consumption hypothesis is then briefly outlined, which suggests that changes in media-consumption patterns beginning in the 1980s were a powerful catalyst for reductions in street crime. Because both hypotheses identify mechanisms that reduce both the opportunities and the propensities to commit crime, they stand out from the majority of crime-decline accounts which are presently oriented toward opportunity almost exclusively. Both hypotheses also happen to subvert conventional wisdom in ironic ways.

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Formula: Algorithmic Composition for Musical Theater

Algorithmic composition methods must prove themselves within real-world musical contexts to more firmly solidify their adoption in musical practice. The present project is an automatic composing program trained on a corpus of songs from musical theater to create novel material, directly generating a scored lead sheet of vocal melody and chords. The program can also produce output based upon phonetic analysis of user-provided lyrics. The chance to undertake the research arose from a television documentary funded by Sky Arts that considered the question of whether current-generation, computationally creative methods could devise a new work of musical theater (the research described here provides but one strand within that project). Allied with the documentary, the resultant musical had a two-week West End run in London and was itself broadcast in full. Evaluation of the project included both design feedback from a musical theater composer team, and critical feedback from audiences and media coverage. The research challenges of the real-world context are discussed, with respect to the compromises necessary to get such a project to the stage.

Alex Spokoyny: Inorganic Architect

Many scientists say that as a kid they always wanted to be a scientist. That wasn’t the case for UCLA’s Alex Spokoyny. “Growing up in Russia in a family where my mom was a biologist and my dad was a physicist, there was always pressure to be a scientist,” Spokoyny says. Although he liked analyzing things, he was also a natural contrarian who would argue with his parents. Still, Spokoyny eventually compromised with his mom and dad, agreeing to attend a science high school in Russia. While there, a funny thing happened: He got hooked on chemistry. “There’s a Russian saying: ‘Sometimes the appetite comes during the meal.’ It was really the experimental side of chemistry that captured my interest.” Spokoyny has been hungry ever since. From his undergraduate days through his postdoc, Spokoyny has studied a vast array of chemical systems, including boron-based clusters with therapeutic potential, metal-organic framework

How to Find and Keep a Good Mentor

Every physician benefits from having a mentor (or two or three). However, mentorship, like any relationship, can be a funny thing. You can search your whole life and never really connect with a mentor. Or, you can be lucky and find the ideal mentor early in your career, then long to recreate that experience. Finding a true connection takes much more than luck, and this article provides the tools for finding and keeping a good mentor.

How do positive psychology interventions work? A short-term placebo-controlled humor-based study on the role of the time focus

The past years have seen a growing interest in the study of positive psychology interventions. Meta-analytic evidence suggests that they are effective in enhancing happiness and ameliorating depression. However, far less is known on why and how they work. We test two proposed working mechanisms: An attentional shift to the positive, and savoring positive emotions. The proposed mechanisms are tested by manipulating the time focus (past, present, or future) in the instruction of a one-week online humor-based positive intervention (three funny things). A sample of 695 adults was randomly assigned to one of the intervention condition or a placebo control condition. All three variants were effective in enhancing happiness and ameliorating depressive symptoms from pre- to post-intervention compared to the placebo control condition. As expected, the present variant was associated with both mechanisms, while the past variant was more strongly associated with the savoring mechanism, and the future variant more strongly with the attentional shift mechanism. This initial study provides first support for the potential working mechanisms of effective positive interventions.

Humor-based online positive psychology interventions: A randomized placebo-controlled long-term trial

While correlational evidence exists that humor is positively associated with well-being, only few studies addressed causality. We tested the effects of five humor-based activities on happiness and depression in a placebo-controlled, self-administered online positive psychology intervention study (N = 632 adults). All of the five one-week interventions enhanced happiness, three for up to six months (i.e. three funny things, applying humor, and counting funny things), whereas there were only short-term effects on depression (all were effective directly after the intervention). Additionally, we tested the moderating role of indicators of a person × intervention-fit and identified early changes in well-being and preference (liking of the intervention) as the most potent indicators for changes six months after the intervention. Overall, we were able to replicate existing work, but also extend knowledge in the field by testing newly developed interventions for the first time. Findings are discussed with respect to the current literature.

Watching Bran Nue Dae in Japan

ABSTRACTWhile recently teaching in Japan, I used the Australian film Bran Nue Dae (2009), directed by Rachel Perkins, in one of my courses. The mixed, but non-Australian students, were interested to discuss why a film that was partly about family and historical trauma was a comedy. Extending from the interest, this article considers whether there has been a similar response in Australia to Indigenous-themed films. Are Indigenous issues in Australia, today, also understood to be best represented as serious; that is, to be presented in terms of trauma and with a focus on the difficult moments? Why might many people—the Tokyo students, but also non-Indigenous people in Australia—find it hard to laugh with (or even at) Aboriginal peoples doing funny things? Using Bran Nue Dae, and my students' reactions, this article examines the usefulness and limits of the sometimes careful attendance to issues of race and pain, which are often the way non-Indigenous people engage with Indigenous peoples and issues. Drawing on the success of Perkins' film, the article also explores the usefulness of comedy.

The Upsides of a Negative Review

The Upsides of a Negative Review