I was born at the wrong time. I don’t feel like I fit the culture of people my age. I also don’t feel like I’d fit in with people older than me. And younger people? Forget it. You know who I do feel a connection to though? Medieval court jesters. I wish I’d been born when they were around.
I love everything about the idea of being a jester. Your whole job is to make a rich, fat king laugh at you. I think I’d be very good at this.
Honestly, most people could probably be a court jester as long as they aren’t too prideful to wear the jester hat. The jester hat is in and of itself one of the funniest things ever sewn. You ever see someone wearing a nightcap? That’s already a bit comical. Now combine two or three of them together into one mega hat. Hilarious. And then throw on some poofy clothes and pointy shoes–forget about it. It’s a riot.
You may think that if I wanted to be a jester so badly, I could just become a clown. There’s a few problems with that train of thought. First, clowns don’t wear the jester hat. I’ve gotta have the hat. Clowns may have crazy hair, sure, but to me that’s a hack bit.
The other thing is if you mess up at being a clown, like if you don’t make anybody laugh, it doesn’t really matter. If you don’t make a rich, fat king laugh, he’ll probably throw you in a dungeon or guillotine you and have your head on a pike. The stakes are much higher at being a jester, and that’s part of the thrill of it.
People also tell me that being a jester wouldn’t be that great because your job is to make a fool of yourself. Well the other option in medieval times would be tending to the fields in sorrow. I’d rather make a fool of myself than be a serf, toiling in the fields.
When you think about it, working in an office is kind of like being a serf toiling in the fields. I mean, sure, I have a computer at my desk that I can watch “people tripping in public” compilations on while I check my email. And I don’t have to use a hoe or a scythe. But it still feels like toiling.
So the other day I decided, you know what, I’m going to jest whether the world wants me to or not. I showed up to work in a jester hat and barged right into my boss’s office. My boss is rich and fat and doesn’t respect me, so he’s kind of like a king.
I was doing a little dance and he seemed confused, so I started telling some jokes. Man, he hated those jokes. “Stop telling those jokes or I’m calling HR,” he told me.
I grabbed a few things off his desk and tried to juggle them a bit. No laughs. Then I dropped all the stuff because I don’t know how to juggle. That got a scowl.
“Do you even want me to jest for you?” I asked him.
“I have no idea what you’re trying to do here. Take that hat off and get back to work,” he replied.
And so I sulked back to my desk in shame. My boss hadn’t even had the courtesy to put me in the gallows in the town square. We don’t even have a town square.
So it seems like I’m cursed to yearn for a life I will never live. The world of being a medieval jester will only exist to me in my dreams. Life’s funny like that. It’s a bit of a jester itself.
