What, You Don't Like Funny?

I touched him! you stage whisper to me, after Paul Mecurio runs through the audience, collecting high-five's.  And I think you should be up there, making people laugh.  I know, at the very least, you won't be like that warm-up act, doing an impression of Carol Channing singing David Bowie.
What's a Carol Channing? and I shrug, no answers to give.  But there he is, screaming at the audience, powering through his last ten minutes before he can vacate the stage and spit in all our drinks.
Then the professional takes the stage and I hear your sigh of relief, and the audience begins to wake up.  He looks at everybody and damn near yells at a lady for not clapping.  "I won a fucking emmy!  You better goddam clap!  What is that you're wearing?  You look like a stripper!"
I sink into my seat, knowing that most of his act is talking to audience members and magically turning the mundane into funny.  We arrived early, hoping to get a good seat.  In our minds "good seat" meant as far away from the funny man as possible.  The man seating us, though, decided "good seat" meant smack dab in the center.  So I make it my mission to laugh at every joke, since he picks only on the ones that are clearly too good to be there.
"Where are your husbands?  Camping?  Sure they are."

We laugh all the way home, wondering why more people don't see comedians.  Their only goal in life is to make you laugh.  How could that be bad?  Only if he talks about Carol Channing, that's how.