Insult Humor Novels & Stories

Or better yet, take it somewhere else and try to cash out a few dollars from it. The irritation was creeping into my mind, and I did not even bother to hide it anymore. This woman was like a dark cloud that hovered over wherever she went, always stirring up unnecessary drama and turning peace into chaos. Her lips twisted into a bitter sneer. "You see? I said it. You are a pained mother fucker." The insult hit me like a slap, but I did not flinch. Instead, I chuckled, the sound dry and humorless. "I am a pained mother fucker because I smiled when you shared your good news?" I asked, staring her dead in the eye. "Because I tried to be civil and react with maturity and sincerity?"

"What? Not my fault you're dumb and you're bringing a diary into your bag at school. You know everyone hated you so it should be you keeping one eye open for your haters." "As if you aren't hated by everyone as well? Illegitimate daughter of the senator. Home wrecker and a shame to the well respected conservative family!" I chuckled hearing his classic and signature insult to me for a very long time. And then I observed myself... Before, I'd instantly flame up once I hear that from him. And most likely, I'd still have the very same reaction if I hear that from someone else. But it's him. And somehow, that insult has watered down to an inside joke between us two.

“Because I’d be glad to.” These are just empty words; he doesn’t actually know how to do it. Or am I growing impatient to do it with him? “No, you’re the reason God made a middle finger, asshole…” all I have been doing is cuss at him, I don’t know how he’s taking this much insult in and still smiling like he’s one at the top. “Are you sure it’s me, because I guess its you, who needs it inside your naughty little cunt…” there he is with another groundless joke, I want to strangle him to death.

I muttered, my voice low, swallowed by the noise of the bar. “You’re really a rude bastard!” he shouted. “Drinking and acting stupid! Don’t you have any manners?!” I held my temple. Each of his words hit me, but I couldn’t tell if it was his anger or my dizziness. “I said sorry, didn’t you hear?” I replied, almost stumbling. “I didn’t mean—” “Don’t give me excuses!” he snapped again. I looked at him. In my drunken state, something boiled inside my chest. I didn’t know if it was the alcohol or the insult, but suddenly I laughed, softly at first, then turning into a bitter laugh.

Finally, I got a proper look at them: one was plus-sized like me, with long blonde hair and piercing blue eyes behind thick glasses, she remined me of my sisters; the other had deeper brown skin than mine, a height and body of a super model and a beautiful healthy afro. “Don’t let him get to you,” the second woman said with a warm smile. I sighed. “I shouldn’t have gone to that fast food in the first place. Why do people insult others and call this ‘dark humor’? What’s funny about cruelty and humiliation?” The slim woman’s expression hardened. “He’s a serial jerk—makes nasty comments about women he dislikes and flirts with the ones who fit his ‘type.’ His dad owns the place, so he acts like

"I guess some people can't afford decent products." The girls behind her giggled. I fought the punch her across the jaw and send her flying–I couldn’t exactly how many times I’ve wanted to do that. I forced myself to remain calm, then spoke. "Was that your best one?" Her smile faded, just a little… "What?" "The insult.” I shrugged it off so casually that it eveh surprised me. "It needs work." Lena giggled a little, but the girls didn’t find it as funny.

Thursday, at lunch, she laughed. It was Marcus Chen again, who had come by the penthouse for what he described as an informal meeting and what Elena recognized as another inspection. He was telling a story about a competitor, dry and specific, the kind of insider humor that required context she didn't have. Victoria wouldn't have found it funny. Victoria's humor ran toward wit and social satire, sharp and polished. She wouldn't have understood the punchline of Marcus's story because the punchline was quietly absurd in the way that only worked on people who appreciated absurdity for its own sake.

"Nice joke. I guess living a poor man's life has diminished your sense of humor greatly." A snigger was heard somewhere in the corner. We always played this game. The 'Let's insult each other game' it was fun until one of us tried to rip each other's throats. That was, in fact, part of the game. You get mad you lose. “Poor and proud. I can still wear a fifty dollar suit and walk into a room full of pompous rich assholes like yourself and own the fucking show." I grinned, "Not to forget woo the ladies."

I asked, "So, Miss. How is it going with the Dark humour guy? Any update so far?" "HA! Dark humour! He's the funniest guy, I've ever met. Didn't you hear that line of him? I mean he called himself motherfucker; oh my, that's the kind of humour I love. Every time he cracks a joke, it makes me head over heels for him. And not forget his awkwardness around girls" the sarcasm was dripping from her mouth. But that changed my mood. And we both started chuckling, "He's not that bad!" I exclaimed. Right? He's not that bad.

I used to think humiliation had a sound. Like glass breaking, or a car crash. Something loud and violent you could point to. I was wrong. Humiliation sounds like polite laughter. The kind that ripples through a rooftop party at 11:47 PM, when three hundred of Manhattan’s most connected people decide you’re the punchline. “Come on, Alina. Don’t act shocked.”