How I feel about my own sense of humor is really best summed up in an old joke:
Mickey and Minnie Mouse are having a nasty divorce. Mickey’s lawyer is offering him counsel, and he says “I’m sorry Mickey, but it’s going to be hard to get a divorce on the grounds that Minnie is mentally insane…” Mickey replied, “I didn’t say she was mentally insane, I said that she’s fucking goofy!”
My favorite part of this joke is that Goofy gets laid. I like the idea of Goofy having sex, of Minnie being so carnally attracted to that tall anthropomorphic dog that she’ll ruin her marriage over it. I’m a goofy guy, and I’m also a virile young man, and sometimes I have trouble reconciling those two things. The goofy gets in the way. In the bedroom, funny things happen. You’re taking off your shirt and your heads thwack so hard that if it happened on a football field they’d be following concussion protocol. You wake up next to a girl and she’s red, covered in hives from your detergent she happens to be allergic to. Struggling to get a girl out of a–is that a shower curtain?–as she tosses her necklace of kitchen sponges to the floor, a homemade necklace of kitchen sponges you’ll find months later when you clean the space between your bed and the wall. Fooling around with your arm in a glow in the dark cast up past your elbow on your dominant arm.
So many things I didn’t laugh at at the time because sometimes it’s embarrassing to be goofy. Especially when you find yourself being goofy unintentionally. Being the goofiest when you’re trying to be sexiest.
But goofy and sexy aren’t mutually exclusive. Channing Tatum is in 21 Jump Street. Ryan Goseling’s a meme. And as for me, people wanna fuck me. Not all people. Not all the time. And not always the people I want at the times that would fit in my schedule. But still. I am 23, tallish, wise in the ways of birth control. The world is my oyster of consensual sex. I have only to accept that my handsome is a goofy kind of handsome. My hot a goofy kind of hot.
Minne loved the way Goofy’s ears flopped over her when they cuddled. How they would rock awkwardly, endearingly, sensually, erotically back and forth as they made sweet, sweet love in the upstairs of Mickey’s clubhouse. They knew they wouldn’t be disturbed that weekend because Mickey was out on the road, at a diner in Tuskaloosa inspecting a new line of pancakes to be made in his likeness.
Those big, long, goofy ears. Minnie nibbled delicately on one, prompting a loud “A hoo-hoo!” from Goofy. How delightful. How fun this was, to be with someone who knew how to be happy. Minnie had tried this ear trick, which she had picked up from a popular women’s magazine, on Mickey once. “Not the ears, not the ears!” he squeamed, as he pulled away. “The ears are the trademark, babe,” he explained later, once they had both cooled down. “They’re my two money makers, my signature.”
My signature, he said. My signature. This had always bothered Minnie. She, too, had the perfectly round, ever-so-slightly-conical ears. He had them, she had them, and so did every other fucking mouse on the planet. So why, exactly, were they called Mickey Mouse Ears? Why were children all over the world ordering Mickey Mouse pancakes? How come all the royalty checks had his name on them?
This was just one of the many factors making the Mickey and Minnie’s divorce such a contentious matter. Minnie was seeking not just 50% of all current assets, but 50% of all future royalty payments coming from all branded Mickey Mouse Ears material–the pancakes, the children’s hats, etc. Mickey’s lawyers claimed that Minnie already had her own trademark–the bow on top. But as Minnie’s lawyers proved, actually, when you see them both in profile, even when Minnie is wearing what has to be agreed is a comically large bow, it doesn’t show in the profile. What does show is that Minnie’s head is perfectly round, and in perfect proportion to her slighly conical ears. And Mickey’s head is the one that doesn’t quite match up. In real life, it turns out, his head is not so perfectly round but rather a little smooshed, like a football. When survey group of 50 individuals was shown a blacked-out profile of both Mickey and Minnie Mouse and asked which one looks more like Mickey Mouse, 41 chose Minnie’s profile.
TO BE CONTINUED