Giving a chick the gift of laughter is pretty much like putting a vibrator to her cognitive clitoris.

Ring heaven’s doorbell and you’re halfway to ringing her devil’s doorbell too. Being permitted entry into the feminine fortress is never far off. Unless, of course, you kill it by doing something like laughing at your own jokes. Or maybe having a micro-peen. But, generally speaking, if you’re good at educing mind-gasms, it doesn’t seem that crazy of an extrapolation to believe you’d be equally good at regular gasms. Or husbanding. Or childraising. Or going to the Whole Foods for me at 10 P.M. without complaining because I forgot my vegan junk food. (Ya know, on a biologically operative level, by which we’re all directed when we peel away the social programming.)

And what is that thing our primal selves are comically attracted to, exactly?


(Just beware of how far down the post ironic rabbit hole you travel.)

In the olden days, before we became civilized, got bored with being civilized, and then slowly started collectively morphing into an IRL version of “Idiocracy” (watch that film and tell me we aren’t well on our way – I dare you), intelligence was considered a good thing. It meant survival. Specifically, it meant that with you as my copilot as we badassed through Bedrock, we could outsmart death – which was looming at every corner in the form of furry mofo’s that wanted to eat us.

So, we’ve got that magnetic draw at our nougaty centers already.

On top of that, you can consider the obvious – as I illustrated at the opening of this article: the mind-gasm. When we laugh – especially at a witty joke – it’s like a jovial aha moment we’re sharing with someone. It’s drug-like. Euphoric. We’re in an altered state with someone seemingly likeable. And we all know what happens when get turnt around someone likeable and try to keep our thigh gap from turning into a thigh chasm, don’t we?

In essence, the laughter puts you in good frame of mind.

You’re relaxed. You let down your guard and inhibitions just like you do after an evening on a sofa with too much Sauvignon and Sade (inevitably it culminates with faceplanting into either a crotch or chocolate cake). I can’t speak for every woman, but if I feel like you like me as a human person (not just the spasmodic sausage gobbling vacuum creature who lives in my pants) and you’ve proven it by connecting with me on an “aha!” meets “haha” level, then I’ll be far more relaxed about my typical-woman entry fee of you doing all the chivalrous shiz we normally require. So, there you have it. Our retro-genetic agenda demands an intelligent partner (even modernly, it’s a good pre-req for the imminent zombie apocalypse). And our present agenda demands that before you’re blessed with ass, you assuage our fears and insecurities. Laughter’s as good a “is he judging my stretch maaaarks?” antidote as any.

Now, I know what you might be thinking:

“But Ashley, I’m not funny.”

I know. I’ve heard you try to tell a joke before. I died of boredom before you delivered the punchline – even though you dropped it prematurely. Not to worry, love. Just because you’re not humorous doesn’t mean you have to be humorless. The three-point trick I’ve developed is to 1.) Start by not taking yourself too seriously (is someone laughing at you? Yes-and that shiz by laughing along with them) and 2.) See the funny connections in everything that happens (they’re there; just look for them). 3.) Share that humor with your mate (“Our waitress looks a bit like Steve Buscemi with hair and tit extensions”)

So, just remember: don’t be a joyless assgrab.

Acting like a moody Dean-meets-Gosling only earns you poon if you look like either’a them.