I can’t be funny on purpose

I’m pretty sure it’s common knowledge to you people that I can’t tell a joke.  I’m terrible at it.  I laugh through them, get the details wrong, and I almost always screw up the punch line.  Every once in a while, I start with the punch line.  I have to practice before I can do it, and by the time I’m ready, the moment’s gone.  So I generally don’t tell jokes.  I need to expand that personal rule to include relating funny incidents.  I was SURE the lines that had me laughing ’til I cried over lunch yesterday were objectively funny, and that John would appreciate that when I told him the story.  And you know?  If ANYone else had told him the story, he probably would have laughed, too.  But I SUCK at it.  It was something to do with a guy from eastern Europe or Russia or somewhere who bench-pressed cows instead of lifting weights and how he refused to go to a regular gym here, and then a coworker of mine took that idea to its logical conclusion of imagining what that guy would say when offered a gym membership that didn’t include livestock and I SWEAR it was hilarious, but honestly, what I just wrote is pretty much the best I can do.  You’re not laughing, are you?

Update: John objected.  He says he promised me he would laugh when I told him the story.  He did.  But it was a fake laugh.  A pity laugh.  Doesn’t count.

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