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Not funny. I didn’t laugh. Not even close. Your joke was so catastrophically unfunny that I genuinely wish it had gone over my head, bounced off the nearest wall, and rolled into a dimension where humor doesn’t exist—because even in that universe, it might’ve had a better chance of landing. I sincerely would’ve preferred you just gave up mid-sentence and walked away in shame than finish delivering whatever that was supposed to be. It wasn’t a joke—it was a war crime against comedy, an affront to humor itself. To call this a “joke” is generous. This was a verbal accident. A malfunction. A comedic glitch in the matrix. Not a chuckle, not a smirk, not a single involuntary nasal exhale. Science tells us that laughter is preceded by subconscious facial muscle movements—yet my face remained statuesque, as if sculpted from stone. No twitch. No nerve response. In fact, I think my brain went into emergency lockdown mode to preserve itself from further damage. 0 out of 10. That’s being kind. This joke doesn’t deserve a rating. It deserves a warning label and a government-issued recall. The fact that you summoned the audacity to say it out loud should honestly be studied. The cognitive energy you used to create this "joke" could’ve powered every city, every village, every Tesla on Earth… if only it had been used for literally anything else. The waste is astronomical. Please, for the sake of humanity, get a personality. Learn timing. Study delivery. Watch a stand-up special. Read a book. Not even a funny book—any book. Build a foundation of understanding how language works, then we can talk about maybe, someday, attempting humor again. And no, I’m not saying this to be funny. There is no sarcasm here. No irony. This is a genuine, deeply rooted critique of the absolute bottom-barrel catastrophe you dared to call comedy. You’ve managed to single-handedly assassinate humor itself. Every stand-up comedian just felt a disturbance in the force because of what you said. You’ve undone the very idea of laughter across all known timelines. Future civilizations will look back on this moment and mourn. I am disappointed. I am hurt. I am offended—not by the content of your joke, but by its very existence. You’ve made my neurons regret firing. In the time it took me to process your joke, I had planned to cure a disease, rescue endangered animals, and help feed orphaned children. But no—your joke hijacked my attention and wasted it in such spectacular fashion that I now feel partially responsible for every global tragedy that unfolds in the next 24 hours. In fact, I believe we should document your joke in textbooks—not as a “what to do” example, but as a cautionary tale. So that future generations can learn what not to say. So that aspiring comedians can look upon it and understand the depths of comedic failure. We can call it: “Chapter 1: The Day Humor Died.” You’ve made me reconsider free speech. You’ve made me want to build a time machine, go back to when you first got the idea for that joke, and gently—but firmly—guide your hand away from ever telling it. I hope you're proud of what you've done. I hope, in some small part of your heart, you feel a flicker of remorse for dragging the entire concept of laughter through a pit of despair. Please reflect. Please improve. And, for the love of all that’s ever been funny, don’t ever do that again.🖖🏿

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