Seriously.

I admit: this column hasn’t been funny for a couple of weeks.

So, to try and remedy the situation, let me confess that I am head-over-teakettle, Romo-in-Cabo, Brady-in-a-boot, Limbaugh-and-OxyContin-sittin’-in-a-tree in love with the grand literary genre known as the Mom Joke, a.k.a., “Your Mom,” or “Yo’ Momma.”

Nothing against the Dad Joke. But my dad laughs when we crack jokes about him, whereas my mom gets red and throws things. And that’s just fun to see.

Besides, you can’t say “Your Daddy’s so fat” if you’re an American, because, duh. American + Dad = Fat.

I do shy away from the “Your Momma’s so fat” species of the genus Mom Joke. For one, my momma is, in fact, a little large. (Get it out of your system.

…

Let me know when you’re ready.)

More importantly, as an aficionado, I’m disturbed by the Mom Joke that’s too easy.

See, right here, here’s an opportunity for two Mom Jokes: (1) “Easy? You know who’s too easy?” which is kind of obvious; and (2) “Disturbed? I know someone who’s disturbed,” which is subtler and isn’t up to its knees in the gutter (special bonus points if you’re thinking, “on its knees in the gutter? You mean like your mom?”).

Mom Jokes are best when they come piled on top of each other. (I’ll give you a second here to make up your own.) They’re best when they’re traded back and forth, over and over. (Seriously, though. You’ve got to draw the line.) And they’re best when you can insult someone’s dear mum without their even realizing it. Try ragging on your sister’s mom, for instance. She’ll tell you you’re an idiot, sure. But it will really make her stop to think.

Sometimes my students’ cell phones ring in the middle of lecture. My general policy is that if your phone rings in class, I reserve the right to mock you mercilessly. One guy’s rang once and I said, “Hiya, pookie-bear! No, you’re a sweet rose-petal dewdrop love-muffin!” Then I made kissy sounds. Turns out it was his mother. Another time I said, “I swear, Mom, I changed my underwear last week.” Turns out it was his mother. Probably the best time was when a student’s phone rang — let’s call him Jeff Kenny — and I said, “Kenny, if that’s your mother, tell her I’ll call her back.”

(The humor in the situation, in case this needs explaining, derives from the implication that I had more intimate knowledge of his mother than was either true or appropriate, and that she was more persistent than either he or I appreciated.)

My shining moment in the world of the Mom Joke came in divinity school, when we were learning about mercantilism and the Reformation. The Dutch were amazing capitalists. In fact, our distinguished professor told us, the Dutch were such great traders that British people referred to them, the whole nation, as “Merchants of the Channel.” I leaned over to my friend Jon — he’s Dutch, an Episcopal priest now, and this story still cracks him up — and I said, “Merchant of the Channel. Isn’t that what they call your mom?”

My arm was bruised for days where he punched me. But I played it off like it was nothing. “You punch like a preacher,” I said. “Your mom must have taught you how.”

“That’s funny,” Jon said. “Your mom taught me something very different.”