I’m walking down aisle #8 but it could be aisle #9, depending how they classify it.
But it’s not down either.
I’m afraid to ask.
I know what sort of response I’m going to get but I’m desperate.
I ask one of the assistants,
So where do you keep it? I ask. Where do you keep the canned laughter?
Pardon? she says.
You’ve got canned fruit and canned veggies but I can’t find the canned laughter.
Is this some kind of joke? she asks.
Sort of, I say, But I do need a can or two.
She looks around for help. You know the look. This guy might be dangerous, I better humour him.
I’ll go and ask the manager, she says.
Don’t worry, I say sadly, no one stocks it any more. She heads off anyway and I slump out the store in my clown shoes and frizzy ginger hair. I beep my red nose for good measure.
No one laughs at my jokes these days. I’ve lost my edge. Looks like I’m going to have to go back to Comedy School.