The podiatrist, flipping through a magazine article titled “10 Signs You Might Be Developing Bunion Pain”, looks up and blinks.
"Oh, hello there. What seems to be the problem?"
The moth flutters in, lands on the arm of the chair across from him, and stares with eyes so heavy they look like they’ve been carrying centuries.
"Doc, where do I even start? My feet hurt. But it’s not the kind of hurt you can fix with ointment or orthotics. No, this is the kind of hurt that seeps into your bones and whispers to you when you’re trying to fall asleep."
The podiatrist raises an eyebrow.
"Alright, can you be more specific?"
The moth exhales, wings drooping.
"It’s my job, Doc. I work at the plastics plant, third shift. The hours are long, the pay is short, and the only thing shorter than the pay is the patience of my supervisor, Glenn. Glenn’s the kind of guy who asks you how you’re doing, but you know he doesn’t really care. He just wants you to say ‘fine’ so he can keep drinking coffee that tastes like despair and graphite shavings."
The podiatrist tilts his head. "I see…"
"You don’t see," the moth snaps, then softens. "I’m sorry, Doc. I shouldn’t lash out. It’s just day after day I screw caps onto bottles. Twist, press, repeat. By the end of the shift, my hands ache, my wings are dusted with plastic flecks, and I can’t tell whether I’m a moth pretending to be a worker, or a worker pretending to be a moth. Either way, the pretending never stops."
The podiatrist sets his magazine down. "Go on."
"And when I get home," the moth continues, "there’s no peace there either. My wife, God bless her, she’s, well, she’s still there. Physically. But emotionally? She’s gone, Doc. Her eyes don’t light up when I come through the door anymore. Used to be, she’d ask about my day, even if she didn’t care about bottle caps. Now? She just sighs, mutters something about bills, and turns back to her crossword puzzles. She fills in words like ‘dreary’ and ‘hollow’ and doesn’t even realize she’s spelling out my life."
The podiatrist scratches his chin. "That sounds rough, but I should…"
"And my kids," the moth barrels on. "Oh, my kids. My son Gregory. He’s sixteen now, tall, brooding, listens to music I don’t understand. He looks at me with this contempt, Doc. Like I’m already obsolete. Says things like, ‘Dad, why don’t you just quit if you hate your job?’ As if it’s that simple. As if the world bends to the whims of moths with dreams. He doesn’t know what it’s like to feel trapped by obligations, by a mortgage, by this unrelenting carousel we call existence."
The podiatrist interjects: "You mentioned your daughter?"
"Anna," the moth whispers, a faint smile flickering. "She’s twelve. Sweet girl. She still thinks I’m strong, though I know that illusion won’t last. I see the clock ticking every time she giggles at one of my bad jokes, or hugs me when I come home. I think: ‘Enjoy it now, old boy, because one day she’ll see you like Gregory does. Weak. Ordinary. Broken.’ And I can’t bear it, Doc. I can’t bear the day when even Anna sees through me."
The podiatrist adjusts his glasses, unsure whether he should charge hourly for this.
"I… understand. But your feet…"
"My feet?!" the moth interrupts. "My soul has blisters, Doc. My heart is a callus rubbed raw by decades of disappointment. Every morning I wake up and ask myself, ‘Is today the day I finally do something different?’ And every night I crawl back into bed having done the same damn thing as yesterday. I feel like a ghost haunting my own life. My wings ache from carrying burdens that no creature should ever carry. Do you know what it’s like to envy shadows? Because at least they get to stretch and move without consequence."
The podiatrist hesitates. "That’s quite, uh, vivid."
"Vivid?" the moth chuckles darkly. "You know what’s vivid, Doc? Dreams. I dream of flying into fields of light, endless skies where no one asks me to twist caps or pay bills. But I always wake up. And when I wake up, I’m not in the skies. I’m back in that factory, under fluorescent lights that hum louder than my thoughts, next to Glenn with his stupid tie and his smug grin. And I wonder: was the dream the lie, or is this life the lie? And which one do I deserve?"
The podiatrist leans back, his chair creaking. "Well, I don’t want to dismiss what you’re going through, but…"
"And sometimes," the moth whispers, "sometimes I think about just stopping. Not in a dramatic way, you understand. Not a cry for help. Just… stopping. Letting the world move on without me. Because maybe it wouldn’t even notice. Maybe the only thing my absence would change is the electricity bill."
The podiatrist gulps, suddenly aware he is very much out of his depth. "Mister Moth. I have to tell you something important."
The moth looks up, eyes glistening. "Yes, Doc?"
The podiatrist clears his throat. "I’m actually a podiatrist. You really should go to a psychiatrist. Why did you come here of all places?"
The moth stares at him for a long moment, then shrugs.
"Oh, the light was on."
Okay, here’s my attempt at a “Joke Poo” version of the moth joke, titled “The Lighthouse Keeper’s Lament”:
The Lighthouse Keeper’s Lament
A seagull flies into a divorce attorney’s office.
The attorney, fresh from a consultation about pre-nuptial agreements, glances up wearily. “Can I help you?”
The seagull, looking ruffled and disheveled, perches precariously on the edge of the desk. “I don’t know where else to go. I need… help.”
The attorney sighs. “Alright. What’s the issue?”
The seagull squawks, pacing back and forth. “It’s my marriage, see? It’s… gone to the birds, you might say. (He pauses for a laugh that doesn’t come.) My wife, Beatrice, she just doesn’t get me anymore.”
The attorney raises an eyebrow. “And what does ‘getting you’ entail?”
“Well,” the seagull begins, “I’m a lighthouse keeper, you see? Remote island. Grueling shifts. Total isolation, save for the occasional fishing boat. It’s a lonely life, Doc. A really lonely life.”
The attorney nods slowly. “I’m following.”
“And Beatrice, she doesn’t appreciate the weight of my responsibility. The burden of keeping ships safe, guiding them through the treacherous waters. She thinks I just sit around all day playing solitaire and eating fish scraps.”
The attorney leans forward. “Does she not visit?”
“She used to! She’d bring me sandwiches, preen my feathers, tell me about the gossip on the mainland. But lately? She says the ferry is too expensive. She says she gets seasick. She says she’s ‘found a new hobby’ – bird watching!”
The attorney clears his throat. “That does sound… insensitive.”
“Insensitive? It’s a slap in the face! I’m out here, battling the elements, risking my life to prevent maritime disasters, and she’s observing other gulls? Probably comparing them to me! ‘Oh, look, Harold, that one has such a sleek plumage!’ ‘That one’s flying technique is so much more efficient!'” The seagull flaps his wings in agitation, knocking over a pen holder.
The attorney winces. “I see your point. Is there infidelity involved?”
The seagull squawks indignantly. “Infidelity? I’m a lighthouse keeper! Where would I even find another seagull out here? Unless… wait a minute. There was that migrating tern that landed on the lighthouse last week…” He trails off, looking suddenly distraught.
The attorney sighs again. “So, what do you want me to do? I specialize in human divorce law. Not… avian affairs.”
The seagull looks at him pleadingly. “I don’t know! Can you send her a strongly worded letter? Can you mediate? Can you at least explain to her the importance of a lighthouse keeper’s work, so that someone appreciates the existential despair of this existence? That the beam is not merely light, but a promise of direction amid darkness? That what may seem a mere lamp on the rocks may actually be the flaming heart of a weary soul?”
The attorney hesitates, drumming his fingers on the desk. “Look, sir, I’m afraid this is a bit beyond my qualifications.”
The seagull looks at the attorney, crestfallen. “So, you’re saying there’s nothing you can do?”
The attorney shakes his head sympathetically. “I’m sorry. But frankly I would expect you to know this…”
The seagull stares at him blankly. “I flew to the address on the sign, you know, thinking someone here could help…”
The attorney stares back. “Sir, I understand that but do you know what the sign said that made you come in here of all places?”
The seagull shrugs. “Divorce beacon, I think.”
Okay, let’s break down this joke and then build something new from its components.
Analysis:
- Premise: A moth, instead of a human, goes to a podiatrist.
- Humor Type: Absurdist, with a touch of dark humor and social commentary.
- Key Elements:
- The Moth: Represents existential dread, working-class struggles, and a feeling of being trapped.
- The Podiatrist: Represents the disconnect between surface-level solutions and deeper, emotional problems.
- The Setting: A podiatrist’s office creates a humorous juxtaposition with the moth’s profound issues.
- The Punchline: “Oh, the light was on.” deflates the entire emotional monologue and highlights the randomness and absurdity of life.
Deconstructing the Elements:
- Moths and Light: Moths are famously attracted to light (“phototaxis”). This instinctual behavior is the basis of the punchline.
- Podiatry: Podiatrists specialize in the care of feet and ankles. They deal with physical ailments, not existential crises.
- Existential Dread: The moth’s monologue is a heavy dose of existentialism, questioning purpose, meaning, and the nature of reality.
- Work and Meaning: The moth’s job at the plastics plant and his strained family life highlight the disconnect between labor and fulfillment.
New Humor Creation:
Let’s go with a humorous “Did you know?” fact based on the moth and light concept:
Did you know: For years, scientists thought moths were attracted to light because they used the moon for navigation and were simply mistaking artificial lights for the moon? This is called the transverse orientation theory. So the moth in the joke could be forgiven for being confused and thinking a podiatrist’s office was the moon! Newer studies show that maybe moths are drawn to the light because it gives them an escape route by flying into the darkness beyond it.
Which makes sense! If you were trapped in a plastics factory all day with Glenn, you’d do just about anything to get away, even talk to a foot doctor!
Alternatively, a joke:
A moth goes to a career counselor. The counselor asks, “What are your skills?”
The moth sighs, “I’m really good at ignoring my existential dread.”
The counselor nods. “Okay, and what are your interests?”
The moth replies, “Bright lights. But mostly from a safe distance, now.”