There are two kinds of humor: the kind that makes us chuckle about our foibles and our shared humanity, the other kind holds people up to public contempt and ridicule. That's what I do.
"What's that black man doing to my pet Hitler, daddy?" "That's not just any black man, that's the Black Man, Nyarlathotep, and he's fucking your Hitler."
A hole had just appeared in the Galaxy. It was exactly a nothingth of a second long, a nothingth of an inch wide, and quite a lot of million light years from end to end. As it closed up lots of paper hats and party balloons fell out of it and drifted off through the universe. A team of seven three-foot-high market analysts fell out of it and died, partly of asphyxiation, partly of surprise.
The record was scratched, the crooning broken. The pieces cut our feet. It was dawn and she was lost. I put back the houses on the road, aligned the telegraph poles along the river and the stray cats jumping across the road. I put back the hills. The road came out of my mouth like a velvet ribbon — it lay there serpentine. The houses opened their eyes. The keyhole had an ironic curve, like a question mark. The woman's mouth.
The world will come to an end amid the general applause from all the wits who believe that it is a joke.