Chuckle: (n) a quiet or suppressed laugh
He drove me crazy (even though that would not require many miles of journey.)
He was a theater critic who came out to watch my show, and even though I settled my inner being by insisting that I would not glance his
way, my left eyeball seemed to deny the commitment and wander over to view his reaction.
I was hilarious–at least as hilarious as I ever get.
I was on–which is merely the opposite of off.
The audience was with me–though you’re never quite sure how much of it is sympathy.
He just sat there. He didn’t smirk. It was like someone had bet him that he could remain emotionless during the entire affair.
I had never met him before, but I hated him. Not with a ferocious anger, sprouting a rage of violence–just a normal, temporary, human hatred, which could be assuaged merely by the introduction of a simple compliment.
After the show he came backstage to see me. I was surprised. I thought the next thing I would receive from this fellow would be his review, in which he used as many synonyms for “mediocre” as possible.
But turns out he thought I was hilarious.
I had to ask him, “Did you ever laugh?”
He frowned at me as if concerned about how much I might have hurt myself falling off the turnip truck.
“You don’t have to laugh out loud to chuckle inside,” he explained. “I am an internal chuckler, who simultaneously admires the material that amuses me.”
I stared at him, but decided not to pursue the conversation, since at this point, the outcome was in my favor.
But as I considered his insight, I realized that I often watched things on television or at the movies, and would tell people how funny they were–yet I wasn’t really sure my face exuded anything other than a death growl.
All I can say is, you can feel free to chuckle, even if it’s done inside your closet of appreciation.
But thank God–oh, thank God–for those who spill and spew their laughter.