A Knock at the Door

19 Nov

The Universe is funny. Hilarious in fact. And I know this very well. My entire race knows this very well. Actually, the basis of our very existence relies on knowing this fact.

Our great ancestors knew this so well, that they my people the Snortlax to match the sound we make when we laugh. However, as part of the Great Cosmic Joke, certain other races are widely different. Historically, peoples which have displayed a dreadful lack of a sense of humour (i.e. the Grogniggs, the Humans, or the Howlers) have often ended in bloody war. One other such example is the Flargh.

They tie in to why I am here. “Here” defined as the planet Cygnus V – a deserted little slice of watery hell. It is the only habitable planet in the Cygnus system and I am living in a wooden little shack on the only habitable island.

“I” shall be defined as Glibglub Snortlax XII, now ex-interspecies ambassador of my people. One of my assignments was to conclude a successful peace treaty with the horribly unfunny Flargh. At the end of our meeting, I decided to conclude with a joke, as is the custom in my culture. I pointed out that the Flargh’s diplomatic prowess matches their race’s tendency to unite their three heads with a glorious eyebrow. As such, I am currently exiled on this hunk of wet rock, no-one to tell a joke to. Well, except myself, of course. In fact, the only reason I’m recording these thoughts is because I find it funny that no-one will ever see or hear them.

Hmmm, now that I think of it, do you know the one about the one-armed, triple breasted hooker of Centaury IV?-

What was that? A knock? At my door? I’d better go and answer it, if I’ve gone mad and no-one’s standing there, at least it’ll be funny.

Unfortunately, what is outside my door is wholly unfunny. More like surprising and a little unnerving. Two Snortlax, one of which is asking if they can come in. I invite them in and ask them what the frikk-frakk-frukk is going on.

“Glibglub Snortlax XI?” one of them asks me.

“XII, ” I reply.

“Whatever, we need your help.”

“With what?”

“You’ve been working on a joke, yes?”

How did they know? Indeed, as there was nothing else to do, I’ve been trying to write the perfect joke, one that would always be funny, a real killer, in the hope that it would clear my name.

“What do you want with my joke?”

“Let us read it.”


“We will tell you after we’ve read it.”

The other Snortlax, who had been silent up until now, goes over to my desk and picks up and starts reading my joke. Meanwhile, the first Snortlax continues to say:

“I am Admiral Jenkins Snortlax XXVI. We’re at war, Glibglub. With the Flargh and we need your help. We need a new form of weapon, one that we can successfully use.”

The other Snortlax crumbles to the floor laughing and then begins choking to death.

“We need… a killer joke,” the admiral says.

I stare at him and then at the dead Snortlax on the floor and then reply:

“That is hilarious.”

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