Vicarious pleasures. Why do we laugh viciously when someone falls?

Heard this joke? Kid goes to his mom crying.

Kid – “Papa was hanging a painting on the wall and hit his thumb with a hammer.”

Mom – “That’s not something to cry about. I would have just laughed. Why didn’t you?”

Kid – “I did.”

The Youtube is full of thousands of videos depicting people failing and falling. And since we all have a funny bone, or maybe a streak of viciousness, we find them hilarious. At least I do (see, streak of viciousness). Of course, fails (as so nomenclature by Youtube)/falls are even more hilarious when they happen to:-

1. Teachers and Principals (the more totalitarian the more the merriment).
2. Obnoxious bosses.
3. Supercilious people.
4. Snooty celebrities.
5. A guy attempting stunts that everyone, other than him knows, can only result in disaster.
6. People mistaking stupidity for courage.

Strangely, a guy who slips and falls, say on his butt, will be more concerned about whether others have seen him take the tumble or not. I guess the fall hurts the ego more than the tailbone.

But why do we enjoy someone else’s misfortune? People have done plenty of research on this subject and some theories can be sampled here. My simple take is that God knows life is tough and He therefore, considerately, throws some slapstick our way to lighten things up.

I too have had my fair share (maybe more than my share) of tumbles. Please allow me to elaborate.

During my school days I needed to catch a bus to and fro. The ‘to’ phase was ok; it being early morn and the buses generally ran half empty. The ‘fro’ was a different story. The bus would invariably be full and Indian drivers being, well Indian, would not stop AT the stop but about 200 metres away, to allow people to disembark. I, on the other hand, considered myself quite like my bosom buddy Superman. I would run along the bus and hop on, as it whizzed past. Till one fine sunny day. The bus stop was crowded comprising an assorted gaggle of giggling school girls (including most importantly, my to-be-wife, then a pig tailed beauty). I sighted the (as expected) crowded bus and thought here was my chance to impress my wife-to-be. So, mistaking stupidity for courage as is my wont, I positioned myself to hop lissomly onto the bus as it passed us. 

Some of you will know that buses in general have a railing at the entry door to serve as a grip/support. I don’t need to tell you intelligent readers that this railing is crucially important for the ‘hopping onto a moving bus’ modus operandi, as one needed something to grip on. Imagine my chagrin therefore when I hopped and my grasping hand found, well, nothing. The darned railing was missing! In a moment therefore, I found myself quite like my bosom buddy Superman, flying (not as gracefully though) through the air. My life flashed before my eyes and ‘oops’ definitely came to my mind as I was left suspended for 2-3 seconds before gravity brought me at 9.8 metres per second squared, face down, onto the asphalt. I could discern from the corner of my eye that the gaggle of giggling girls was guffawing, none more heartily than my wife-to-be.  I still have a deep scar on my elbow, but not as deep as the one on my soul.

The wife-to-be became The Wife in due course. Cheers! I discovered soon enough however, that while she had many sterling qualities, being able to coexist peaceably with other animal species such as rodents, was not one of them. Live and let live was not her motto when it came to furry cute rats. She sighted one in the bathroom one day and quickly decided that this was a task for her manly husband. So once the shrieking like a banshee had subsided, she adroitly closed the door and tasked me to get rid of the furry cute one. The loving husband me, armed myself with a stick and like  a somewhat apprehensive Columbus forging ahead into the unknown, gingerly opened the door and slipped into the bathroom.

We eyed each other – the rat and me. Him with whiskers twitching and me with trepidation. However, realizing that just eyeing each other would not satisfy The Wife, I charged stick raised. Nothing. The blasted creature was quick and neatly sidestepped, as Muhammad Ali would say, floating like a butterfly. The two of us continued this tango for about five minutes, my stick getting a chance to do its assigned job not once. Finally, the rat was cornered on the top of the wash basin. “Aha” I said to myself and sent the stick down in one fluid motion of my arm. The blasted creature floated again. I tried to adjust my downward swing based on a quick mental calculation of the relative velocity vector, but the only thing that made contact was my wrist – not with the rat, but with the wash basin. Result – wrist in cast for a month. How does one respond when the doctor asks – “So tell me what happened?”

Then there was an occasion at the National Defence Academy when I decided that I have had enough of physics classes and thought skipping one, and replacing it with a restoring snooze in the comforts of my cabin, would be just what the doctor ordered. The sneak out and cycling homewards to my cabin was achieved without incident. But just when I was 300 metres short of my destination, I heard an ‘Oye’. I turned my head to see an Instructor gesticulating for me to stop from about 100 metres away. Naturally therefore, quick thinking me, doubled the pedaling speed. The downward slope of the road also aided in increasing my speed to maximum in no time.

Now you will recall that in one of my earlier posts I had advised all readers to always keep their eyes on the road while driving (feel free to click here). Unfortunately, the adrenaline rush made me forget this elementary precaution. I snuck a quick glance at the Instructor to see if he was following me. Fatal mistake. Bump, dump – I went off the road and into a ditch, entwined with my cycle in one  lump, quite like two amorous lovers. By the time I got my senses back and unentwined from my blasted lover, the Instructor was standing over me, smirking (menacingly)! Silver lining? Seeing my state, he had to let go of the pleasures of punishing me and instead had to carry me to the hospital in his arms. Am not sure which scar is deeper – the wound, or the ignominy of the embarrassingly intimate lift.

If you think swimming pools are generally safe I will disagree and I’ll tell you why. After a refreshing swim one day, I found that the changing room floor was wet. Brilliant me said to myself – “Let me climb onto the bench and put on my trousers -” So I did that. As you know, one needs to bend down to put one leg into one trouser leg and then stand upright to pull it up, then bend and repeat with the other leg. Right? A loophole that I had missed in this routine procedure was that my climbing up onto the bench had reduced the distance between the top of my head and the stupid ceiling fan. One moment I was standing up with one leg inserted in one trouser leg, the other moment I was on the floor with a cut on my nut; still with one covered and one bare sexy leg. Needed six stiches on the nut. I still have the scar.

The vagaries of life have given me many more such scars. Ladders, scooters, cycles, hammers, volleyball, soap, teddy bears – they have all contributed. However, as this post is already long, maybe I’ll come back to them some other day.

And if you laugh at me, I’ll understand – it would only be human.