Earlier today, I wrote two columns...and both were fine. One was a snapshot of Washington in repose as our government took its annual Easter break (who said we aren't a Christian nation? Even Joe Lieberman went home...), and the other was an examination of the philosophy of money.

Trust me, that second one was as dull as it sounds.

It occurred to me as I coded up the column on money (don't ask why I picked that one; I don't know, really) that I hadn't written a funny column all year. Even worse, the last six or seven pieces have been completely leaden. Even my best friends, people who are often in tune with the strangeness of my brain's wavelengths, have had difficulty finding the perseverance to get through even a majority of them. Some have even dropped a note asking what was wrong.

I dunno.

It's not just that I'm living inside the Beltway, a condition that has been known to render even the funniest people (and I'm not one of them) decidedly dull. And it's not just that I'm spending 12 hours a day or more taking care of a one-year-old and a four-year-old. It's true that sort of duty can be difficult and energy-draining, but it's not the whole story, either.

I'm pretty sure I haven't lost my sense of humor. It is true that I found The Wedding Crashers decidedly unfunny, and even The 40-Year-Old Virgin failed to elicit much more than the occasional grin (though getting to see Catherine Keener featured as a lead actor was a nice bonus). Nothing seems funny these days. And maybe that's the problem.

It isn't funny that our government is run by incompetents. It isn't funny that the Prez continues to press on with his "yer either wit us or agin us" rhetoric. It isn't funny that on Capitol Hill it is easier on to hear the sound of handcuffs getting clicked than it is to hear people conducting the business of America. It isn't funny that "Arrested Development" got canceled. It isn't funny that the Royals are 3-13 as we get to the end of April. Nothing's funny at all.

We've faced similar lacks of hilarity. The spring of 1992 comes to mind. We were still getting our asses out of Iraq (ahem) the first time, the job market for college graduates (of which I was to become one) was the worst in a generation and the Royals started the season 1-25 or something terrible like that. But I was drinking more then. And I was reading more Hunter Thompson.

Maybe that's my problem. I haven't sat down with Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas and a six-pack (preferably high-gravity) since Max and Sam were born. That an annual (if generally unscheduled) retreat like that has become a memory might well be the cause of my general malaise. I mean, if HST could laugh at Nixon, the greed heads and the even-then incompetent masters of the war on drugs, well, I can laugh at the absurdities of today, right?

The more I think about this, the more I think I'm on the right track here. On the whole, I'm a private person. Really private. I like to be alone. A lot. Helps me think. Helps me reshuffle my brain and prepare me to, once again, face reality. When you've got two young kids, there's no way to disappear. There's definitely no way I can afford to get obliterated while reading one of the classics of western literature.

I suppose some people could manage to keep up with two balls of atomic energy while staggering through the throes of a massive hangover. I can't. And while it would be quite tempting to simply lie in bed and let the little freaks take over the house, the truth of the matter is that Sam likes to pry the mortar out from between the bricks and chew on it (I'm pretty sure that's not a good thing) and Max would paint the house pink and purple given even the slightest leeway.

Folks with more common sense than me would point out that I might read Fear and Loathing while drinking only three beers. Or maybe drink just two beers while watching the movie. But see, the excess is the whole point. I need to obliterate any objective reality and fully immerse myself in the absurdly brutal prose. The movie is okay, but it's not the book. And three beers bring a buzz, not a hammer. And in order to truly realign my brain, I need the hammer.

But that's not possible now. So I beg your indulgence. One of these days I'll write a funny column again. And then you can smile knowingly to yourself and say, "I guess Jon found the time to swing a hammer." And you'll know life is as it should be. At least for me.

Jon Worley knows this column isn't funny, and he apologizes abjectly.