The Cumulus of Comedy

Nimbus was a cloud with a dream: stand-up comedy. His stage was the cerulean expanse, his mic was the wind, and his material? Strictly meteorological. "Why did the cumulonimbus break up with the stratus?" he'd bellow, then pause for effect, "Because she was too clingy!" The birds would chirp, utterly oblivious. His agent, a perpetually damp earthworm named Wriggle, constantly advised, "Nimbus, darling, less barometric pressure, more relatable human experience! Perhaps a joke about a lost sock?" Nimbus, however, was an artiste. He insisted his humor was about the "vaporous human condition." One particularly dreary Tuesday, during his set on the existential dread of evaporation, he accidentally rained a gentle drizzle onto a mime convention below. The mimes, locked in their invisible boxes, dramatically 'reacted' to the sudden 'water'. Nimbus, mistaking their silent flailing for uproarious laughter, beamed. "Finally!" he boomed, "They *get* me!" From that day, he only performed over mime conventions, convinced he was a comedic genius, forever oblivious that he was merely a weather inconvenience providing excellent, silent improv fodder.