Dear avid fans and potential ex-wives.

I apologize, but I have absolutely nothing to write about. I don’t know what’s happened. For two weeks now, I have sat down with my favorite pen, Betty White-embossed stationary, put on my silk kimono and favorite Lionel Richie album (vinyl, not digital, you haters), dimmed the lights and searched the recesses of my mind for a nugget of comedic glory to cast upon your innocent eyes. But nothing comes.

Though I try to maintain hope, I fear the worst. It seems I have lost my sense of humor. I’m quite certain it was on a Tuesday, at approximately 1:45 p.m. I was sitting quietly in a semi-crowded lounge enjoying a beer and writing jokes about the less fortunate, as I often do. I got up to use the restroom and when I returned, it was gone. I knew it was gone because the less fortunate only reflected a grim reality of institutionalized socio-economic oppression geared toward ensuring the wealthy always possess a mass to manipulate. Not funny.

This is not good, friends. It’s like Bieber without Disney. The cat without a hat. New York City without Twin Towers.

I have searched high and low. I removed everything from my apartment piece by piece in a futile effort to find it. By “I,” I mean three fine fellows loitering about in our neighborhood Home Depot parking lot. By the way, if ever you need a day’s work done for a reasonable price, I highly recommend these gentlemens’ services. Make sure to get there early though, while the selection is still good. By the time I arrived there were only three guys hovering around a single Playboy magazine, sharing a Styrofoam container of carne asada nachos and passing around a drink in a brown paper bag, which I can only assume was lemonade.

Communicating was a bit of an issue too. They must have been from the south because I couldn’t understand a word they were saying. I do remember them talking quite a lot about pinching and bingo, though. Still, they were nice guys. One of them accidently broke the stand on my new plasma TV and offered to take it home and fix it for me. I should be getting it back any day now.

But even with their help, I could not find it. I don’t like to make accusations, but I think my sense of humor might have been stolen. I do recall a sketchy guy sitting nearby on the day in question. I remember him clearly. He stood between 5’4 and 6’7. He was whitish and had eyes. His shoes were wearing socks.

He sat quietly across the room, careful to blend into his environment. I got this strange feeling he was watching me when he made eye contact through the hole cut in the center of his newspaper and said, “I’m watching you.” He clearly wasn’t reading the newspaper.

So I need you, dear reader. I need your help to find my sense of humor. It shouldn’t be hard to spot. It’s dark black and reeks of despair, while sporadically saying things like “Knock, knock” and “So, this guy walks into a bar.”

I’ve already received a couple of leads. A kind and gentle man suggested I might try looking in my ass. The colonoscopy is scheduled for Friday. There is also a nice group of guys who said they have some information for me. I know they’re legit because they have secret handshakes and codes. They are so secretive, in fact, they primarily communicate on walls of public bathrooms and abandoned buildings. They said they would be willing to meet with me, but it would need to be late at night in a remote area. I was told to bring $1,000 and leave my cell phone at home. The extent of precautions they take lets me know I can trust them.

But I can’t put all my eggs in one bush. This is why I need you. Without your help, I fear I’ll never be able to write again. In these hard times, society could not contend with such a severe blow. Chaos would ensue. Governments would collapse. Planes would fall from the sky. Evolution would reverse itself. We would have anarchist half-man-half-fish-with-feet creatures living in charred fuselages raping and pillaging in the night.

Do you want that burden on your shoulders? Do you? I didn’t think so. Find it quickly. No reward.

Sincerely,

Joe Stewart, your BFF

P.S. I also lost a super-sweet embroidered should-er bag with “Juicy” written on the flap. Keep your eyes peeled.

—Joe Stewart is a failing journalism senior. His success depends on you. E-mail any information to thisismejudgingyou@gmail.com

—The views expressed in this column do not necessarily reflect the opinion of The Daily Aztec.