Ken Hurley
The human race has one really effective weapon, and that is laughter. – Mark Twain
Wolf, Chisel, and Bluffball, three life-long compadres, sat in their most recent favorite eatery, Gadzooks Enchiladas and Soup Kitchen, located in the great dusty desert capital of Phoenix, Arizona. The three enjoyed their noetic trialogue as they ate refried beans and guac and contemplated their long-awaited search for an exciting existential crisis. Why were their lives so good while others bitched and moaned about how the world is unjust, unfair, and un-umm-everything-bad? Why did they spend so much time giggling over nonsense while others cried that their lives made no sense? Their jaw joints ache from too much jocose laughter. They know their perceptions of incongruity and joyful chuckles relieve tension and are contagious. So why can’t they infect others? Maybe they’re missing something. They dream about an expedition of great importance. One that would give them the right to truly sing the blues and feel it.
The trio heard that somewhere out in the northern mountains was a forest that had a monument dedicated to “Misdirection and Deception.” A grand statue built entirely of unjustified hope, perplexing expectations, and puzzling self-delusions. It was said to be located just beyond the realm of practical thought, nestled somewhere within the Forest of Ironic Outcomes near the Lake of Discontent, where optimism went to die and the unreasonable reigned supreme.
Wolf, the self-proclaimed leader of the dreamy expedition, sported a shaggy gray beard that carried bits of crumbled taco shells. Wolf, a large, hirsute, bespectacled man whose slouchy gait was caused by the checkerboard blue backpack he wore filled with banana peels, chicken bones, a flask of the unknown, and discount coupons at Crogerstabs grocery store.
Wolf had a penchant for mumbling motivational platitudes that often created more confusion than inspiration. “Remember,” he grumbled in his deep baritone chortle, “The journey is more important than the destination — unless the destination involves homemade chocolate cake.” Chisel, with his cavernous furrowed brow, powerful jawline, and a habit for questioning the existence of existence, liked to think of himself as an advocate for practical considerations. He believed he created an ingenious invention that uses a combination of the latest solar and wind technology to dry clothes. He calls it a clothesline. He carried a sheath on his hand-stitched, gold-studded leather belt that held a honeybelle icing spatula he used to extract himself from sticky situations and smooth the layers of reality. “One must always expect the unexpected,” Chisel said as he licked chocolate ganache from his spatula.
Then there was Bluffball, a young, pretty and plump, self-styled “Queen of Braggadocio,” who was usually more sciolist than profound. She loved to wear an oversized floppy yellow hat that she embellished with clinquant tassels, beads, and dried flowers in the braided and faded brown hat band. Bluffball was known for making wild claims that made her smile, boasting that she could juggle flaming torches while riding a unicycle on a tightrope over a pit of hungry crocodiles. As she juggled invisible balls, which led to everyone watching her in the restaurant question their sanity for a moment, she shouted, “Belief is the most potent form of reality!” Then sat and dipped her quesadilla in the guacamole for a yummy slobbery mouthful. The three decide to turn their dream into reality and set off on their grand expedition down the long and winding Boulevard of Broken Dreams, which led them onto the highway of Tears and Angst. They noticed a peculiar sign at the edge of the Forest of Ironic Outcomes: “Welcome! Please Leave All Logic and Egos at the Entrance. No Tacos either!” They giggled at the thought of logic; who needed that when their lives were pampered by pandering to their funny bones? They ventured deeper into the forest, where all the trees that swayed with the breeze seemed to crackle existentially as if they had seen too much tragic irony in their lifetimes.
Along the way they encountered Hapless Haphazard, a loud, bumbling, one-eyed creature with loricate skin and a retroussé nose, who resembled a bipedal, bipolar, bisexual behemoth with rollerblades for feet, sitting next to the bubbling Fountain of Foibled Fate. Hap asked probing questions such as, “If you try to fail and succeed, which have you done?” Then Hap posed this scenario: An old man is condemned to death. He has to choose a room. Room #1: A fiery inferno. Room #2: 50 Assassins with loaded guns. Room #3: A room full of lions that haven’t eaten in three months. Which room is the safest? And, When a microwave cooks something in space, can you hear the beep? They pondered these questions for a moment before Wolf declared, “I prefer my questions to be asked by one of those magical droll trolls, thank you very much!” Before they journeyed on, Bluffball was too curious not to taste the liquid in the fountain that flowed with the color and consistency of a strawberry DQ Blizzard. Bluffball confidently put her lips in for a sip and declared, “You can taste the indefinable futility of existence!” Chisel was tentatively optimistic as he proudly proclaimed, yet sheepishly believing he displayed his ability to think outside the box, “What if it’s just Pepto?” As if he were thinking.
Wolf dipped his toe in the fountain and immediately felt an eternity of ennui wash over him. “Eureka! This is it! The existential crisis we’ve been looking for!” he cried, dramatically clutching at his chest as if the weight of the cosmos had suddenly fallen upon him. Instead of despair, Chisel began to giggle uncontrollably. “This is the worst tasting pink ever!” he wheezed, crouching to the ground.
Bluffball, ever the opportunist, suggested a game: “Let’s see who can drink the most without expressing their existential woes!” The challenge commenced, yet soon they were rolling on the ground in laughter — whether from the barfy taste or the stupidity of the circumstances, they were not sure.
They succeeded in their ridiculous task, but instead of clarity or existential enlightenment, they were left with a bizarre sense of camaraderie. They realized that their absurd journey was itself a form of belief — in the unpredictability of life, in laughter amidst confusion, in the company of friends even when sanity waxed and waned like the moon over Miami.
Then came a pivotal moment, introduced by a random blackout curtain that fell from the sky, as if an unseen playwright had decided it was time for an intermission. A dark figure stepped forward from behind the curtain. A mysterious wisdom dispenser labeled “Dr. Understandably Confused.” The Doctor was a three-headed entity, each head in the throes of a debate that made even the simplest assumptions seem outrageously complex.
“Why do you seek the Monument?” the first head queried. “Life is a series of nonsensical events leading nowhere.”
“Or everywhere!” the second head objected. “Every choice, however arbitrary, adds layers to the absurd collection of memories, experiences, and cake.”
“Layers of information that ultimately reveal nothing!” the third head interjected, dismissing the layers with a smiley contemptuous wave.
Chisel raised a hand, “But maybe it’s the pursuit that matters? Isn’t searching for meaning or understanding an intrinsic part of being alive?” Wolf and Bluffball nodded vigorously, though neither truly understood Chisel’s point. The Doctor paused, connecting the dots in a way only a confused trio of heads could. “Ah, yes — the great illusion of purpose!” they exclaimed in unison, each head sporadically winking.
With newfound enthusiasm, the companions felt as liberated as Tutu Tuesday during Burn Week. They realized that the great absurdity of life did not need resolution; it merely needed to be experienced amidst joy, friendship, and frivolity. Rising to their feet, they decided to abandon expectations and blindly wander deeper into the Forest of Ironic Outcomes, where they encountered creatures that resembled both metaphors for life and playfully aggressive proctologists dressed in Zoot Suits.
Before long, they came upon “The Monument to Misdirection and Deception.” It was a towering structure of many-colored whimsy, adorned with lights that didn’t illuminate anything but added to its strangeness. A plaque at its base read: “To Seek is Greater than to Find.” The three stared in bewilderment as they scratched each other’s heads.
Bluffball spoke up, “Should we believe in its message?”
Chisel shrugged, “Does it really matter? Believing doesn’t change the structure. After all, it’s still a monument to misdirection.” Wolf grinned, “Let’s just take a selfie with it. The evidence of existence is already defying all common sense.”
And so, they huddled together, struck a ridiculous pose next to the monument, and laughed so hard that some birds perched nearby fell over, laughing too, in a rare moment of cosmic harmony. As they wandered back toward Gadzooks Enchiladas and Soup Kitchen, a profound silence settled upon them, punctuated only by the occasional hiccup of laughter. They weren’t sure what they had really discovered. Perhaps it was the futility of making sense of life rather than embracing the nonsense. They accepted that belief was just another whimsical choice driven by the innate need to choose.
In the end, as they reached home, they realized their expedition was a far greater experience than they ever expected. Wolf, Chisel, and Bluffball understood that life, like their time in Gadzooks Enchiladas and Soup Kitchen, was a charming duckwalk along the edge of absurdity — a tale that continued to write itself beyond any Monument to Misdirection and Deception. When confronted with the query, which is better, the destination or the journey? They all agree, the answer is, the company.
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GADZOOKS!
