Jack Hanke, 18, arrived at rehearsal wearing a giant sombrero and green kimono. Noah Britton, 29, took off his pants midpractice, explaining that they still stank from last night's concert. He ran through the rest of his comedy troupe's practice wearing boxers and the group's signature T-shirt, which reads: "I don't want your pity."
Britton, Hanke and the other two members of Asperger's Are Us don't care who thinks they're weird. Or even funny. They think they're hilarious. And if others don't laugh, who's the one with the disability?
Many traits the public has long found engaging or amusing, experts say, have roots in Asperger's. The absurdity of Monty Python, the flat demeanor of Star Trek's Mr. Spock, the awkwardness of Andy Kaufman are all common Aspergian traits.
"In the last few years, Asperger's has become recognized as a foundation for some elements of comedy," says Asperger's advocate John Elder Robison, author of Be Different. "All of a sudden there is a broad public awareness that the reason would probably be called Asperger's."
That growing recognition helps groups such as the Boston-based Asperger's Are Us, which is getting gigs right now because it's Autism Awareness Month. They're grateful for that, but as their shirts suggest, the members aren't seeking compassion.
"We'd much rather (the audience) appreciate us as comedians than as people who've overcome adversity," says Britton, the group's informal leader since he was the others' camp counselor seven summers ago.
Asperger's, defined by social awkwardness and repetitive behaviors, is part of the broader "autism spectrum" of disorders.
Members of Asperger's Are Us revel in absurdist humor. Some of their jokes get laughs because their delivery is so deadpan, some because they offer insights into male adolescence, and some because they're just plain wacky, like a skit in which one member says another has gotten him pregnant and the other replies: "You can't be pregnant. I'm bubble-wrap."
There has been little academic research on what makes people laugh and virtually none on the connection between autism and humor, scientists say. And maybe that doesn't matter.
"You don't want to rely on academics to tell you whether something is funny," says Simon Baron-Cohen, a leading autism researcher in England and cousin to comedian Sacha Baron Cohen. "Ultimately you want to look at the audience response."
Group members rib one another about the obsessions, or perseverations, common to people with Asperger's. One skit lampoons 19-year-old group member Ethan Finlan's obsession with train schedules.
That transportation expertise comes in handy, though, when planning rehearsals, they say, and other Aspergian obsessions can be useful, too. Britton's passion for psychology propelled him through a master's degree and into a teaching position at a local community college.
Riffing recently on the ubiquitous jigsaw-puzzle-themed autism awareness logo, troupe member New Michael Ingemi, 19, wonders: "What's it supposed to imply? That we're missing a piece?" (He calls himself "New Michael" because his father's name is Michael, too.)
"We're just differently assembled," Hanke responds.
Obviously, not everyone with autism has this group's quick wit and urge to perform. Many can't speak; others struggle to hold a simple conversation.
Britton, who was appointed last month to a federal autism advisory group, says he has a much easier time sharing jokes with others on the spectrum than with "neurotypicals."
When people ask the purpose of his troupe, he knows they expect something like "raise awareness of autism." Instead, he once responded: "We want to sail a flotilla to Spain. We've been building all these boats and we just want to get out there."
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