Francisco Goya. The Third of May, 1808. 1814.

“Whoa!” Diego flung his hands in the air as way too many gun barrels aimed his way. “Okay, no more ‘your mom’ jokes. Relax, okay? Please?”

With great reluctance, the hostile audience of mother enthusiasts lowered their weapons. Diego attempted an easy smile, but his collar was suddenly too tight. He was also pretty sure that wasn’t a beer stain now gracing the front of his pants.

Comedy was a risky gamble, poking fun at the stuff others were so serious about. For example, he was totally cool with “your mom is so fat” jokes; for one, his mom WAS fat, and two, what followed that statement was usually something so preposterous it was hard to take offense. But this audience didn’t seem to have that problem. It almost seemed like they wanted something to get angry about. Then again, he supposed if someone felt the need to bring a gun to a comedy show, they might be of the tempestuous sort.

Diego wracked his brain for jokes, but struggled to find the funny. Instead, it seemed like his mind was running in the opposite direction, suggesting things like the “Jurassic Bark” episode of “Futurama.” This was not good.

Good fortune arrived in the form of a blind elderly man shuffling into the bar, whacking his white walking stick against the other patrons’ ankles with such zest that Diego doubted the man actually was lacking eyesight. Regardless, the newcomer had presented inspiration.

“How did Helen Keller burn her ear off?” Diego asked the audience. “She answered the iron. Do you know how she burned her other ear off? They called back!”

A few hesitant chuckles encouraged Diego to press on. “What did Helen Keller say to the shop assistant when she knocked over a product display? ‘Just looking!’ Oh, you've heard that Helen Keller joke before? Well, she hasn’t!”

The audience roared with laughter, guns forgotten, as Diego continued with his zingers and inwardly thanked Helen Keller for saving his ass.