It's not easy
being the funny man. There comes a time in every funny (wo)man's life where you just feel like being normal, blending in, and enjoying the sun, the lake and the day. Right before your sister hands you what appears to be an enormous rainbow flag.
"What the fuck is this?" I ask.
"It's your towel man, remember? Mong let us pick them out and you thought this one was funny."
I opened the towel to find "I <3 surfers" written over and over again in huge letters, also in rainbow coloring.
"Shit," I muttered quietly to myself and tried to quickly lie covering as much of the writing as possible while avoiding the glances of the people nearby.

Fortunately for me and my overwhelmingly funny brethren, crazy people will often step up and provide comedy of their own, free of charge. The other day I was at work, as I am constantly it seems, when Jim, a shriveled man with coke-bottle glasses hunched his way into the store. Having already met my daily crazy bullshit quotient (CBQ), I faded out of the front lines, and began to concentrate particularly hard on a brake adjustment. Besides, I knew I wasn't the one he was after.
"JOHN!" Jim erupted behind me. John, our oldest mechanic by thirty years, is the quintessential crotchety old man and as such, my chief conversational partner.
"Hi Jim," John replied in his traditional the-light-went-out-of-the-world-fifty-years-ago voice. My focus then drifted back to the brakes and it was several minutes before I started listening again to their conversation. What had caught my attention was a phrase that just didn't seem quite right... followed by another. Then another. After about a minute of listening intently, I was forced to stagger off, choking silently with laughter.

Jim: John, do you want me to go under McDonald's
        and get a blue piece of styrofoam for us to live under...
        We'd have plenty to eat;
        I could go down,
        you could go up,
        it would be like we were 68 again.
John replied "Yep."

Thank god for crazies.