Death Is Easy, Comedy Is Hard

I'm a funny guy. I've been told this for many of my adult years. I do my very best to respect other people's viewpoints, and to act on them whenever practicable. However, I draw the line at the notion of becoming a "professional". This decision was made for me some time ago, and the fact that I still cringe when I think of this particular evening only reinforces just how right I must be.
I was standing in front of a group of very stoned Arby's employees. I had loosened myself up with a few cocktails - Mountain Dew and Southern Comfort (Sudden Discomfort) - and I came upon this couch full of easy targets. This was my kill zone. I was locked and loaded, or at least the latter.
I opened with some witty observations about the crowd at the party. This was met with vague indifference. Obviously they needed something a tad more visceral. I went into a sarcastic rant about the owners of our local franchise: Mike and Cowboy. It would have been better if they had been glazed over, or fixed on a spot just above my head, but the four of them just stared straight ahead, directly at me. The expression on their faces said it all. "Okay, Funny Guy, make me laugh. I dare you." I did characters. I did voices. I started to steal liberally from every comedy album I had ever heard. I stole jokes from Bill Cosby, Cheech and Chong, and Steve Martin. I may have even tried a dirty limerick or two. I was desperate. I was flailing.
Finally, one of the guys on the couch turns to the others and says, "You guys want another beer?" He gets up, turns to me, and says "Excuse me" before he heads across the room to the keg. I died a little that night. Since then I have taken great joy from those moments when I elicit a chuckle or two, and I probably lean a little too hard on those moments when I really start to roll. I'm still a funny guy, but I'll never be as funny as I was the moment before I stepped in front of that couch so many years ago.