JOKES FORGET THEMSELVES
Jokes Forget Themselves—has a stark, declarative charm.
It reads like a truth disguised as a glitch.
Where Jokes Forget Themselves
Suggests a place, a world, a logic all its own.
Jokes Forget Themselves Mid-Sentence
Hints at the unraveling nature of the humor.
The Joke That Forgot It Was a Joke
Is more narrative and surreal.
Jokes Forget Themselves
is evocative, minimalist, and quietly surreal.
It captures the essence of this work:
absurd and surreal humor that loops, derails, dissolves.
The title feels like a sentence that’s already halfway into a story, which is the type of intrigue that invites a reader to lean in.
Where the Joke Forgets Itself
- Humming Absurd in Dream Logic
- Laughter with Too Many Eyes Surrealism
- Humor That Molts in the Dark
- A Joke That Climbed the Staircase to Nowhere
- Echoes from the Mouth of a Teacup
- Absurdity as Ritual Sacred Nonsense
- Comedy of Unraveling Realities
- Giraffe in the Kitchen Art of the Illogical
What follows is reimagined pages of contemporary nonfiction
woven from threads. Keeping the bones of our rhythm and
expanding it into something that breathes with a pulse:
part memoir, part myth. Voice layered—part wise refugee,
part naive immigrant, part trickster archivist.
Content that speaks, flickers, stutters, and hums.
The Joke That Refused to Die
We didn’t come here with punchlines. We came with trapdoors. With laughter that limps. With stories that forget themselves halfway through and start bleeding poetry from the seams.
We came with jokes that had been told too many times in too
many languages, and still hadn’t landed. We came with metaphors that had been smuggled across borders in the lining of coats.
We came with silence that knew how to laugh.
So we made a home in the absurd. Built shelter from the illogical. Planted seeds in soils of contradiction.
And somehow, things grew. Crooked and alive.
We named it Brrd Roots.
Not because it meant anything. But because it hummed.
We don’t do logic all by itself. We do dream logic.
Clocks that bleed. Clouds that whisper Brrd Roots in a voice that sounds like Mother Nature imagined. We make spoons cry.
We mix funerals and birthday parties in the same place.
Blow out candles with one hand and carry grief in the other.
Joy and Sorrow are not opposites from each other.
We do jokes that loop. That contradict.
That forget what they were trying to say.
We do stories that start with an ending
and end with a joke told by a ghost to a mirror
that refuses to reflect anything awful.
We have seen too many things happen for no reason.
We have seen too many reasons lead to nowhere.
We have seen wars start and peace end with a shrug.
We have seen people vanish between sentences.
We say: “She apologized before she insulted him.
Then she forgot both events entirely.” And we nod.
Because memory is a slippery thing
and time doesn’t always move forward.
Because the past arrives late and sits at the wrong table
And eats your dessert.
We say: “The cause of the war was a rumor whispered backward.” And we believe it. Because we lived it.
We don’t tell stories in straight lines.
We tell them in spirals. In loops. In smoke signals.
We tell them with our hands. With our scars. With our silence.
We tell them in languages that no longer exist,
and in laughter that refuses to die.
We believe in derailment. In the sacred art of veering off course.
We believe in setting up a joke and then walking away.
We believe in the jolt. The break.
The moment a pattern shatters and something wild crawls out. Something with countless beautiful eyes that hum.
We believe in the freakish. The unforeseen. The ridiculous.
We believe in individuals who insist they are invisible
while wearing neon suits. We believe in jars that scream back.
And laughter that startles the mind and leaves us wondering,
“What did we just witness?” And then we laugh again.
Because we are still here and wide awake every hour.
We believe in the compost or universal manure of existence.
In the waste, the wear, the quiet labor of unknown hands.
We believe in humor that doesn’t flinch from the chew-and-spit cycle of this current world—but finds warmth in the nutrients.
Tenderness in the soil. Insight in the steam rising from a heap.
We believe in humor that screams through wreckage.
That claws its way out of a collapsing structure,
coughing up smoke, dragging its punchlines behind broken limbs. Humor that is disguised. Toxic.
Beautiful in the way a burning cathedral is alluring—sacred
and crumbling, echoing with something that might be a warning.
We believe in humor that molts. Splinters.
Crawls on eight legs across a floor of common sense.
We believe in humor that spills. Leaks strange colors.
That twitches. Stains. And Multiplies.
Shows us something we didn’t ask to see—but now that it’s here,
we can’t look away.
We believe in humor that glows like heat haze over a horizon.
Seduces and disappears just as you reach for it.
We believe in humor that decomposes. Rots then blossoms.
Stitches itself back together with thread made of moss.
That limps out of a wound under translucent flesh.
We believe in humor that chants in tongues made of contradiction. That joyfully dances barefoot on broken patterns.
We believe in humor that doesn’t ask permission.
Doesn’t seek approval.
That twists. Spirals. Declares: this is sacred. And absurd.
We believe in humor that giggles. Chews on its own echo.
Spits out something that sounds like laughter
but feels like a glitch in the throat of the universe.
We believe in humor that doesn’t resolve.
That ends with a breath. A break. Another beginning.
We are Brrd Roots.
A joke that survived a fire.
A laugh that crossed borders of fear.
A personal story that refused to be completed.
We are here to unravel. To remember.
To molt. And To bloom.
- B.W. Otto
