"The people who cast the votes decide nothing. The people who count the votes decide everything." - Joseph Stalin

For my birthday, my parents got me a t-shirt with that quote on it. I have been wearing it for the past few days because I have been amazed by others reactions to it, and when you are on a business trip in a strange city you can get away with wearing the same cloths every day until they start to noticeably smell.

My dad told me, a long time ago, that the only jokes that were funny were the ones with a premise that was extremely close to the truth, or the ones with a premise that could not be further from the truth. What he forgot to mention is that much like the slapstick of Americas Funniest Home Videos, the best jokes are only funny to the outside observer, the one who is not getting racked in the nuts.

I was not even thinking about what I was wearing when I went up to the ticket lady to check my bag. I handed her my drivers license and my boarding pass. When she scowled and said, “What’s that supposed to mean?” I instinctively thought that there was something wrong with my ticket. I looked down at my boarding pass to make sure that I did not accidentally hand her the month old one that I was using as a book mark for The Fountainhead. It was a second before I realized that she was talking about my shirt. I mumbled, “Eh, it’s just… elections, uh funny.”

Now, in my defense, she did catch me off guard. I did not think to have a rebuttal prepared. She typed something into her computer and took my bag. I was deep in thought about what had just happened while I meandered through the ropes leading up to the TSA check point. The agent took my ID and made a point to noticeably pause and read my shirt. This is always an awkward moment. What do you do – stand still and let the individual read the text, straiten out the wrinkles to make it easier on them, try to obscure the message like it is some sort of mistake, or just pretend like there is nothing written on your clothing and stare back at them like they are crazy? The later is the typical treatment I get from women in Wall Mart who have phrases written on their busts or butts. I learned that his does not work so well with members of the same sex who have a badge. “You think that’s funny?” he said. “Um, yeah,” I replied. He took an extra long time making sure my drivers license was not fake before letting me pass.

At the bar in the beer belly that overlooks the Bible belt of America, I thought I noticed a few dirty looks. Starting to feel paranoid, I asked the bartender, “Is this shirt offensive?” “Well, yeah,” he replied, “I could see how people might be offended.” I did not question him further on the subject, even though I was confused by his answer.

Sitting here, drunk, in my hotel room, I am still confused. What I thought would be a hilarious joke is apparently deeply offensive. Perhaps I misjudged. Maybe the joke neither close to the truth or far from the truth. Maybe it is in that same purgatory of humor that Dane Cook resides.

Of course, the alternative is far, far more depressing. Maybe, just like Americas Funniest Home Videos, to the outside observer the joke is hilarious. Maybe, to the guy with the camera, this is side splitting humor. Maybe, just maybe, the reason why the joke is not funny is because we are the guy getting hit in the nuts.

I don’t like this joke anymore.