I Feel Funny

The first time it happened, I didn't flinch: "You know that guy who does the anti-smoking puppet show? He reminded me of you." I can understand that. For two years running, "Plumkin's Choice" had my students rolling in the aisles. I took it as a compliment. Five minutes later, another teacher came into the lunchroom and said, "That guy with the puppet? He reminded me a lot of you." Now I began to feel self-conscious.
What was it, in particular, that I had in common with this purple puppet wrangler? "Oh, I don't know. Just the way you say things."
"My delivery?"
"Yeah, sure." And with that, I could tell that I was making them uncomfortable with the intensity of my response. I'm sure they meant it as a compliment. There was no hidden suggestion that I may have somehow missed my calling. They were in no way intimating that I should get myself a sock and start practicing with hopes of someday hitting the big time.
I have, in my past been compared to other funny people. I rather liked that, for a time, my sister-in-law used to point at the TV anytime Bill Murray was on and say to my niece, "Look, it's your uncle!" Of course, these things don't happen merely by chance.
I have spent years cultivating my comedic persona. I am that person who waits for the low-hanging fruit of bad puns, and double entendre is the only entendre with which I am familiar. I have mimicked the cadence and tones of Steve Martin, Robin Williams, all the members of Monty Python, and even Bill Murray, to name but a few. Sometimes it's easier just to sound funny, and so this has become my solace. And my shame.