Last Laugh
Would you rather weep or laugh? That's what I call a false dilemma. It is an inherent contradiction. Both tragedy and comedy are cathartic. The truth is, both are reflexes, not an act. Neither laughter nor weeping can be faked—or they're not true. Both are deeply rooted in the human brain stem, a fact that did not escape Freud. For him, jokes unmasked the repressed, the unconscious—a revealing parapraxis—like a slip of the tongue. Freud's remarks on the Greek tragedy are likewise legendary.
But—beware—the censor is listening. Sex, as Freud discovered, calls for intervention. In tragedy, sexuality is over-expressed, leading to the birth of the tragic hero, born under an unlucky star, fated, pitiable, and a loss for all mankind. In comedy it is the failure, rather, of the sexual response that establishes the dramatic conflict. Do you notice the reflex twinge, at even so banal a reference as this, to the psychology of sex? It's not laugh-out-loud funny. It is humor, or "humours," as it was spelled in old-fashioned medical treatises.
If the tragic hero was born at an unfortunate hour, the comic villain suffers from erectile dysfunction. The joker's problem is psychological—not physical—as in the case of the tragic hero's unlucky birthday. Note that the comedy figure's complaint is treatable—which leads to its light-hearted treatment in comedy. If the tragic hero's fate is set in stone, the comedian's impotence is license to improvise. He deserves what he gets. Wit and repartee are the tools of the comedian's trade.
Impotence, I maintain, is that primal source from which all comedy springs. As I have argued elsewhere, comedy (as we know it) evolved from the ancient goat plays—with their phallus-wagging satyrs—which in turn devolved from the myth of Dionysus. As I imagine it, the actors who played satyrs wore masks, both to conceal their identity from their neighbors, and from the city-state at large. It is the original outline of a stage notes from which all subsequent comical misadventures of the misguided male gender descend.
If my mock-oratorical tone irritates sensitive sensibilities, I apologize; really, I do. My interest in commedia dell'arte began in high school Latin class. My best friend Joe and I used to try to make each other crack up while the teacher, Mr. Thompson, demonstrated his command of Latin grammar. Joe's best joke, which I have never forgotten, went like this:
"Help! Help!" (spoken baritone)
"Shark! Shark!" (screamed alto)
This was around the time the famous movie Jaws became a breakaway success. The day's popular humor, and the fact that both Joe and I had made it through puberty successfully—the proof of which being our voices' deeper pitch—were cause for levity. Nobody is prepared for that change or, for what it's worth, the fact that nature doesn't always take its course successfully (cue nervous laughter).
A latent image of the fear of losing the male member develops into an archetypal script for a skit that can be either tragic or comic. Psychologically, it is the so-called "castration complex." The anxiety begins before puberty, probably the main factor inhibiting normal gender development. I'm not a psychologist, but my advice is that—before tragedy strikes—the subject of castration anxiety should be discussed openly. That opinion is suggested by another of Joe's jokes. He used to say, "I could climb Mt. Everest, but I won't, because I'm afraid of losing my toes to frostbite—all 11 of them." (thud)
Joe went on to become a successful lawyer, and retired at an age when I was still struggling to pay the rent for an artist's garret, and analyzing neurotic jokes. What delayed my early development was deliberating on the big questions, "Why am I here?" and "What is reality?" And yet, I have no regrets, because my study of commedia dell'arte has begun to bear fruit. Now I know "all the world is," indeed, "a stage." There's no such thing as being "out of character." Should the world come to an end, I shall die laughing, and applaud like it's the funniest joke in the world.
All of which was prompted by the apocalyptic demise of the Ayatollahs, as told by the flood of media reports reporting on the Iranian situation. It recalled the memorable line from the 1984 movie, Ghostbusters, "This city is headed for a disaster of biblical proportions." Forgive me if I indulge in a touch of schadenfreude. We remember the hostage crisis. Look to the "comments" section of the news media, in which the crowds are roaring with laughter, because the Islamic revolution has taken a turn for the ridiculous—and it's all the fault of the dynastic pretensions of the Ayatollahs. The line of succession has come to an end. As an example of the ridicule the Ayatollahs are being bombarded with is the following anecdote, copied from one such, "comments" section, in the March 12, 2026 New York Post:
"...an Iranian source claimed to The Sun that Khamenei was actually in a coma and undergoing intensive care at the Sina University Hospital in Tehran.
“One or two of his legs have been cut off. His liver or stomach"
From the comments:
The Brain
2h ago
Coma, leg amputated, d ick doesn't work.
Not exactly a winnig streak.
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The Brian
1m ago
Was it only "one or two," or did they get his 3rd leg, too?
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(Proofreading for this blog post was provided courtesy of Scribbr.)