Back in high school they did an annual Mr. GQ contest for senior men. As the only senior in my Model UN club (NERD!), I was selected to represent them.
There were three rounds: a tuxedo walk-on with an escort, a q & a with the judges, and a talent portion. I have to say, I cut a good figure in my tux. I threw in a couple good zingers during the q & a and got some legitimate laughs from the crowd. I was beginning to come off as the wit of the group, and that was just fine with me. I knew I'd get beaten in the looks department so I was going for personality, and I had that for days. But then came the talent portion, and that's when tragedy struck.
See, I was "that writer guy" in high school. School newspaper, literary magazine, I was a fixture. I could write a great article on assigned topics that I didn't care about at all, I had an awesome regular music column, and I did some funny essays for the magazine. But like any teenager who had had their heart trampled upon the previous summer, I decided the only way to express my pain was to become a poet. A god-awful poet.
So after hours of playing up my whole class clown angle, I get up for the talent portion and proceeded to read a dreadfully earnest poem I'd written a few months earlier called "Drowning". Skillfully written or not, I was up there baring my peachfuzzed soul.
And the audience thought it was another joke. A very funny one. In retrospect, it was sort of exhilirating. In all the years after, I haven't gotten laughs like that on purpose. I pretty much decided on the spot, mid-poem, to abandon the high-stakes world of poetry for comedy writing. I turned that goth dirge into a beatnik impression and didn't look back.
In the end, I lost to a guy who dressed in a leaf skirt and read from Dr. Seuss's The Lorax.