If life is a circus, then I’m the ringmaster who trips over her own whip, gets up, bows, and makes the crowd laugh. Absurdity is not just my schtick — it’s my survival strategy.

I grew up in the seventies — the glorious, analog age before Wi-Fi fried our imaginations. We had no internet, barely a handful of TV channels, and a whole world of backyard theater waiting outside. My friends and I made cardboard sleds and flew down crazy hills, splashed in creeks until dusk, and invented our own universes out of boredom and sunshine.

Evenings were sacred sitcom time with the family — Gilligan’s Island, Petticoat Junction, Happy Days, and Laugh-In — our laughter stitched together by canned studio applause and genuine joy. And then came The Carol Burnett Show, where I met my heroes: Tim Conway, Harvey Korman, and that irreverent troupe that could make failure look like art. But my personal awakening happened across the pond with Monty Python’s Flying Circus — that absurd British brilliance that taught me you could turn existential dread into a silly walk.

Monty Python, George Carlin, Steve Martin, Weird Al Yankovic, and The Dr. Demento Show — these were my teachers. I cut my teeth on LPs and 45s, and learned early that imagination was an oxygen mask. Humor became my emergency exit. When depression came knocking, when anxiety started its drum solo, when my unconscious saboteur tried to hijack the bus, I threw a banana peel under its foot. I made ridiculous faces in the mirror. I swore at God. I swore at myself. I invented a puppet named Bleep to take the blame. And for a few seconds — the heaviness broke.

🪄 Absurdity as a Tool, Not a Gimmick

Absurdity isn’t just silliness. It’s a neurological jailbreak. Your unconscious mind loves patterns. Humor snaps the pattern. It’s a defibrillator for despair. A punchline is a tiny quantum leap.

I give myself permission to be goofy, imperfect, and wrong — to wiggle like a kid with grass stains and ketchup on her face. This is how I snap out of a bad state, a dark mood, or a tantrum at myself. Not by shaming myself but by making room for the ridiculous.

🛠 The Practice of Sacred Goofiness

Here’s how I do it, day by day:

Sound effects: Sometimes I literally make cartoon noises out loud when I catch myself spiraling. “Boing!” “Bleep!” “Dun-dun-DUN.” It interrupts the loop.
Absurd characters: Bleep (my tattoo puppet) exists so I can swear without guilt. Think of it as spiritual ventriloquism.
Mini-breaks: 20 seconds in the sun. Deep breath. Cat whiskers on the cheek. Little jolts of sensory delight.
Ask your future self: “Twenty years from now, what would I tell me today?” Then listen. The answer is often kinder than you expect.

🔥 Why It Matters

I’ve been 200 pounds overweight. I’ve had double knee replacement surgery. I’ve lived in a surf van without running water for seven years. I’ve made colossal mistakes, cried in grocery store parking lots, and accidentally glued my own pajama pants to a vinyl seat once (don’t ask, it involved duct tape and a dream). I’ve died a thousand micro-deaths — ego, heartbreak, diet plans — and yet, somehow, I’m still here, laughing. Absurdity is how I outsmart my pain long enough to remember my joy.

We’re all on a timer. You’re closer to death every second. (Surprise!) So you might as well go out in style. What if you had one year left? Would you still scroll endlessly and doom-diagnose yourself on WebMD? Or would you dance like your joints came with a warranty, sing off-key to confuse the angels, bake a pie just to throw it at your own reflection, and belly-laugh until your ribs remember what being alive feels like?

🌈 Your Permission Slip

Absurdity isn’t trivial. It’s medicine. It’s Monty Python for your nervous system. It’s a pie in the face of despair. It’s your soul screaming, “I refuse to be dignified while the world’s on fire!” It’s the reminder that you, my friend, are allowed to be ridiculous and still be radiant.

So go ahead — channel your inner George Carlin, your inner Steve Martin, your inner child careening down a hill on stolen refrigerator cardboard, grass-stained and triumphant. Swear at God if you must. Swear at yourself if you’re feeling democratic. Make a noise no one asked for. Bake a pie with zero intention of eating it. Write something so bad it wins an award for enthusiasm.

Laugh so hard you accidentally heal something.

And if you ever lose your sense of humor — truly lose it, like the car keys of your soul — that’s your cue to commit an act of holy nonsense. I once glued a squirrel to the hood of my car. Not a real one, mind you — a plaster garden ornament squirrel named Larry who looked perpetually shocked. Then one afternoon I thought, why stop there? So I glued six hundred and fifty Mylar pinwheels to the entire exterior of my car. DETAILS HERE…

When I drove, the whole thing spun like a mobile disco tornado of joy. I drove it across the country twice. Children pointed. Adults wept. The wind applauded.

That’s what healing looks like sometimes — ridiculous, shiny, and a little bit sticky.

So go make your own moving art piece. Your own pie fight. Your own glitter-splattered sermon. Because absurdity isn’t an escape from life — it’s the confetti cannon that shoots you back into it.

With pie, pinwheels, and Bleep’s eternal giggle,

Tré Taylor

🎪 The Art of Absurdity: Outwitting Your Own Unconscious with Humor