Things we read are almost always in two points of view, the first person, “I swallowed a fly,” and the third person, “The man swallowed the fly.” There is, however, that weird in-betweeny thing called the second person. “You swallowed a fly.”

I’ve tried to read pieces written in second person, but when I read, “You swallowed a fly,” I generally think, “I did? When did this happen?” They leave me feeling very uncomfortable.

Generally, it’s a good rule to stay away from this form in journalism and fiction. I’ve already covered the fiction part–remember when you swallowed the fly? But I also believe a journalist would rather say, “The GAO’s new report is shocking,” than, “You will be shocked at the new GAO report.” The first phrasing may imply how the reader should feel, but the second phrasing tells the reader how they will feel.

Second person, however, is acceptable in many places. In advertising: When you walk across the plush carpets, you will marvel at the old world craftsmanship of this quaint, three bedroom home. In songwriting: You and I travel to the beat of a different drum. And, in everyday conversation: When you listen carefully, you’ll hear it too.

So, when I saw yesterday that I had used the second person several times in my post on the subjectivity of humor, I thought about editing them out, as if I were a journalist. However, I decided not to. Because I’m not writing for a magazine, I’m having a conversation with you.

Last night for my book group, we read Headcrash by Bruce Bethke. To me, Headcrash is one of the funniest books ever written. It is raunchy, crass, and unhygienic. Just reading it made me develop a small rash. In 1995, Headcrash did something that almost no humorous books ever accomplish. It won an award, specifically, the Philip K. Dick award.

When the final vote was cast, we were rather split on our opinions, four likes to three dislikes. The amazing thing was that some of the likes and dislikes cited the same reasons for their respective opinions.

For instance, Headcrash is a great example of retro-futurism. It takes place in the Internet of today as all we World Wild Web pioneers thought the Internet would be when in grew up. (Instead of the haven for B2B networking and pictures of grandchildren that it has become.) In Headcrash, superusers live in a virtual world of fast cars and faster women that puts Grand Theft Auto to shame. To me, remembering what it was like to daydream about the future of the web in 1995, that’s really funny. To someone who didn’t get on the Internet until much later, that aspect was just a big question-mark.

Some people say that humor is all about showing someone something they don’t expect with the right timing. Other people say that humor is always about class warfare. But, to me, humor is about context. It’s a lot easier to enjoy the tongue-in-cheek comments in Cory Doctorow’s Little Brother if you remember being a fifteen year old computer enthusiast than if you are in charge of teaching immature young adults. Just as you are more likely to enjoy Headcrash if you’ve ever hooked up with a person on a MUD without knowing for sure if they were a man or a woman. As the Bard said, “I’m from the Internet. Such things happen.”