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Most recently published stories in Humor.
Laughing vs Health: A Medical Perspective
Introduction Laughter is often described as the best medicine—a universal human behavior that transcends language and culture. But beyond its social and emotional value, modern medicine has increasingly acknowledged laughter as a genuine contributor to physical and mental well-being. From boosting immune response to reducing pain and improving cardiovascular function, laughter holds significant therapeutic value. This documentary report explores the medical impact of laughter on health, supported by research findings, clinical examples, and expert opinions.
By Ahmad shahabout a year ago in Humor
Rejected Advice from My Inner Child
I don’t hear voices—let’s get that straight. But sometimes, when life becomes a pressure cooker of adult responsibilities, deadlines, and dishwashing, I hear a faint, mischievous whisper from the back of my brain. It’s small, it’s bratty, and it usually sounds like it’s holding a juice box. That’s my inner child. He’s seven years old, perpetually sticky, and absolutely convinced he knows better than me. Recently, after a particularly exhausting Monday that involved a broken printer, a coffee spill, and a meeting where Steve from accounting said, “Let’s circle back” one too many times, I sat on the couch and sighed. That’s when he popped up. “Why don’t you just quit your job and become a dinosaur?” I blinked. “Excuse me?” “You heard me. Dinosaurs don’t go to meetings. Dinosaurs don’t file taxes. Dinosaurs just roar and eat stuff. Be a dinosaur.” He had a point. A weird, unhelpful, prehistoric point—but a point nonetheless. --- Episode One: The Great Crayon Incident My inner child’s second piece of advice came during a low blood sugar moment when I skipped lunch and found myself staring at a pack of colorful highlighters. “They look like popsicles,” he said. “No, they don’t,” I replied. “They do. Try the pink one. It’s strawberry.” “You’re not even real.” “And yet I’m the only one here trying to make life fun again.” He was winning the argument, and that was concerning. Eventually, I compromised and ate a cookie instead of a highlighter. But for a moment, I really considered what strawberry ink might taste like. That’s the power of inner children—they have no concept of consequences, just cravings. --- Episode Two: Financial Advice from a Kid Who Thinks Monopoly is Real One Saturday morning, I was budgeting my expenses with a calculator, a spreadsheet, and a headache. Inner child popped up again. “Why don’t you just buy a jetpack?” “Because I have rent, utilities, and student loans.” “But you’d get to work faster. And you’d look awesome.” “You think jetpacks are cheap?” “No, but if you pass GO, you get $200.” “That's Monopoly.” He crossed his arms, clearly unimpressed with my logic. “You’re no fun.” Honestly, he wasn’t wrong. I used to buy fake tattoos, candy bracelets, and those gooey hand slappers with my allowance. Now I buy toilet paper and anxiety medication. Somewhere along the line, fun became a luxury instead of a priority. --- Episode Three: Dating Advice from a Boy Who Thinks Girls Have Cooties I showed up to a first date wearing something sensible, with a list of witty conversation starters in my head. Inner child chimed in: “Ask her if she likes farts.” “Absolutely not.” “Everyone likes farts.” “No, they don’t.” “Okay, then challenge her to a burping contest.” “You’re a menace.” “She’ll remember you forever.” I ignored him. I stuck to grown-up topics like books, travel, and career goals. But halfway through dessert, I accidentally snorted while laughing—and she snorted back. We ended up talking about our most embarrassing moments and laughing until we cried. That was when I realized: inner child might be immature, but he knows how to connect with people better than any dating coach on YouTube. --- Episode Four: The Great Escape Plan On the worst day of the year—yes, the day I found out my vacation request was denied—my inner child proposed a full-blown escape. “Pack a bag, fake your death, move to a treehouse. I know a guy.” “You don’t know a guy.” “Fine, but we can at least pretend the sofa is a pirate ship.” “…What?” “Come on. You be the captain. I’ll be the parrot. Let’s sail to the kitchen and plunder snacks.” I didn’t have the energy to argue. So I did it. I climbed on the couch, yelled “Aye aye!” and dramatically navigated through the pillows with a remote as my compass. Ten minutes later, I was laughing. Like, belly-laughing. I hadn’t laughed like that in weeks. Maybe months. Turns out the kitchen does have snacks worth plundering. --- Final Thoughts from the Juice Box Guru I don’t take all of my inner child’s advice. I still haven’t quit my job to become a dinosaur, and I’ve resisted the urge to eat crayons (so far). But I’ve started listening more closely to him. He reminds me to dance when there’s music. To eat dessert first sometimes. To say what I feel, even if my voice squeaks. And to stop taking life so seriously that I forget it’s supposed to be fun. Sure, he’s chaotic. He’s irrational. He once tried to convince me to climb a tree in dress shoes. But he’s also the part of me that remembers how to play. And maybe—just maybe—play is the thing we all need more of. Even if it means occasionally pretending your coffee mug is a rocket ship. ---
By Mati Henry about a year ago in Humor
How Government Spending Works… Without Numbers
Welcome to the magical land of government spending, where math is a myth, accountability is an endangered species, and the national debt is just a number we chant before sacrificing logic to the gods of lobbying. If you've ever wondered how your tax dollars are used, abused, or lost behind a vending machine at the Pentagon, then this guide is for you!
By The Pompous Postabout a year ago in Humor
The Day I Called in Adult-ish
It started with an email. Just one. A harmless little subject line that read, “Quick Follow-Up Needed.” But deep in my bones, I knew it wasn’t quick. I knew it was code for “We need this spreadsheet done yesterday and we’ll email you about it every five minutes until you cry.” So, naturally, I did what any rational adult would do under pressure. I opened my closet, grabbed my dinosaur onesie, and disappeared into a world of couch cushions and childhood denial. Yes. I built a pillow fort. Yes. I called in adult-ish. Let me explain. --- 9:07 AM – The Breaking Point The day started like most: groggy, undercaffeinated, and aggressively ignoring my to-do list. But something about that email, the passive-aggressive wording, the sheer weight of adulthood… it snapped something in me. I looked at my stiff office chair. I looked at my cold coffee. I looked at my inbox. And then I thought, What would eight-year-old me do right now? The answer was obvious: Quit the system and build a fortress. --- 9:23 AM – Construction Begins Within minutes, I was dragging couch cushions into the living room like a woman on a mission. Blankets were flung over chairs. String lights were untangled. My dog watched me like I’d finally lost it. I added a “Do Not Disturb—Royal Meeting in Progress” sign and posted it outside my new headquarters. I wasn’t just hiding—I was reclaiming joy. And possibly my sanity. --- 10:15 AM – Business Casual Dinosaur Once inside, I changed into my green dinosaur onesie, which, until then, had been used exclusively for Halloween and bad decisions. I brought in cookies, juice boxes, and a walkie-talkie I found in a junk drawer. I even printed out a spreadsheet and used it as a table mat for my snacks. Productivity, redefined. --- 11:47 AM – Pillow Politics At this point, I was feeling a mix of euphoria and mild guilt. Should I respond to that email? Should I check Slack? I decided to hold a formal meeting with my imaginary team: Teddy, Sir Meowsalot the plush cat, and my dog, Winston, who had now joined the fort. Minutes from the meeting: Teddy suggested more cookies. Sir Meowsalot meowed silently. Winston demanded belly rubs. Consensus: We continue the fort life. No outside emails allowed. --- 1:00 PM – Lunch Break with No Rules I microwaved mac and cheese, added dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets, and declared lunch “Official Fun Food Hour.” No salads. No kale. No guilt. I ate cross-legged inside the fort while watching old cartoons, the kind with ridiculous sound effects and zero educational value. It felt like therapy. Cheap, cheesy, childish therapy. --- 2:33 PM – Reflection in Crayon Inside the fort, I found a notebook and crayons. I started drawing without thinking. A sun with a smiley face. A stick figure version of me with a cape. A mountain labeled “Adulthood” and a little path called “Nap Breaks.” It hit me: I was tired. Not just sleepy tired, but life tired. The kind of tired that comes from pretending you’re fine when you’re buried under deadlines, bills, and the weight of always being “on.” Little me didn’t care about performance reviews. She cared about snacks, cartoons, and how cool treehouses were. Maybe she had a point. --- 4:00 PM – Re-Emerging Eventually, I poked my head out of the fort like a groundhog checking for stress levels. The adult world was still there. My inbox had exploded. A calendar notification screamed at me. But I didn’t feel panicked anymore. I took a deep breath. I replied to the email. I scheduled a real break for later in the week. I even changed my Slack status to “Productive from a secret location.” No one questioned it. --- Final Thoughts: Why Everyone Needs a Fort Day Here’s the thing: adulthood is exhausting. We’re constantly balancing responsibilities, pretending we have it all together, and forgetting that we’re still human underneath the spreadsheets and subscriptions. Sometimes, the best way to cope isn’t to grind harder—it’s to let your inner child take over for a day. Wear the silly onesie. Eat the cookies. Build the fort. Because maybe, just maybe, healing doesn’t always look like yoga or journaling. Sometimes it looks like a grown adult in a dinosaur suit, eating mac and cheese inside a fortress of couch cushions while watching cartoons. And honestly? That might be the most responsible thing I’ve done all week. ---
By Mati Henry about a year ago in Humor
My Cat Thinks I'm His Intern (And He's Not Wrong)
Let me begin with a confession: I used to think I was the owner. I paid the rent. I bought the kibble. I scooped the litter. I assumed this meant I was in charge. Then along came Theodore—an eight-pound, smug-faced, paw-flicking authority in a fur coat. And everything changed. Theodore (never Theo, never Teddy—he insists on full formality) was adopted from a local shelter two years ago. I thought I was rescuing a lonely creature. In reality, I had just signed an unpaid internship with a very demanding CEO who speaks in yawns and passive-aggressive tail flicks. From Day One, it was clear who ran the show. He walked into my apartment like he was inspecting company property. He paused at every piece of furniture, sniffed it like an investor appraising assets, and eventually plopped down on the comfiest pillow—declaring, without words, “Yes, this will do.” I didn’t even get a thank you. Now, every morning begins the same way: at precisely 5:38 a.m., Theodore jumps onto my chest with the gentle grace of a bowling ball. He doesn’t meow—he stares. Just... stares. I’ve come to recognize this look as “Your alarm clock is late and so is my breakfast.” As I stumble into the kitchen, still half-asleep, he leads the way like a supervisor giving a reluctant employee a performance review. I pour the kibble. He sniffs it, sniffs me, then walks away. I have failed. I offer tuna. No? Chicken? Temptations treats presented like I’m bribing a corrupt official? He finally eats—reluctantly—as if to say, “Fine. But don’t expect a letter of recommendation.” Theodore maintains a strict schedule of lounging in sunbeams, glaring at birds through the window, and knocking over cups just to remind me of my place. Once, I dared to close the bathroom door while I showered. He protested by clawing at the door like a tax auditor discovering undeclared income. I learned my lesson. Working from home has only made things worse. Every Zoom call is now co-hosted by Theodore, who insists on walking across the keyboard, flashing his majestic tail at my boss, and sitting directly on my notes. He doesn't approve of productivity. He believes my sole job is to keep him entertained and fed. Anything else is a misuse of company time. There was a moment last month when I truly accepted my role. I had spent fifteen minutes carefully detangling a piece of string from under the couch while Theodore supervised. The moment I freed it and offered it to him triumphantly, he blinked, turned, and walked away. Reader, I saluted him. He doesn’t need me. He has me. He’ll occasionally reward me with a crumb of affection—curling up on my lap while I watch Netflix or lightly tapping my face with his paw when I’m crying over sad movies (or onions). But just when I think I’ve earned a promotion from Intern to Assistant, he’ll swipe my water glass off the nightstand at 2 a.m. because I forgot to fluff his blanket. I’ve tried to rebel. I’ve bought “anti-scratch” tape, citrus sprays, expensive puzzle toys. I even tried the infamous spray bottle technique. That was a mistake. The bottle has since disappeared. I suspect he hid it. Or worse, he knows where I sleep. My friends say, “You’re spoiling him.” My family says, “He’s just a cat.” But I know the truth: he’s a cat with a business plan, and I’m just lucky he hasn’t outsourced me yet. I once thought cats were independent. Aloof. Low-maintenance. I now understand they are just excellent managers—cool under pressure, emotionally manipulative, and always three steps ahead. Theodore is living his best life, and I am simply the underpaid, overworked intern keeping the machine running. I asked him once—half-joking—if he loved me. He blinked slowly, yawned, and then turned his back to me. Classic executive behavior. And yet, despite the indignities, the 5 a.m. wake-up calls, the rejection of every new toy, and the litter box that must always be pristine—I adore him. Because deep down, I know the truth: I may be his intern, but he’s my therapy, my alarm clock, my executive life coach, and occasionally, my fluffy overlord. Besides, every great intern learns eventually—the secret to success is figuring out what the boss wants before they even ask. So if you’ll excuse me, I believe Theodore is ready for his afternoon nap—and his blanket hasn’t been fluffed yet.
By Jane Smith about a year ago in Humor
The Planet Where Everyone’s Your Ex
It all started with a smoothie and a minor asteroid field. I should have known not to fly after guzzling a Strawberry Spirulina Disaster from Galaxy Smoothiez™, but I was late for a cargo run and figured: “What’s the worst that could happen?” Spoiler: total ship failure, emergency landing, and stumbling into the single weirdest planet I’ve ever encountered.
By Muhammad Hamzaabout a year ago in Humor
The Stowaway: Snake at 30,000 Feet
The passengers of a Virgin Australia flight expected a quiet journey from Melbourne to Brisbane. Most were already seated, some sipping their coffee or scrolling through their phones. The boarding process was smooth, the weather was calm, and everything pointed to a typical domestic flight.
By zahidullahabout a year ago in Humor
