Lisbon’s Laughing Statues: City’s Monuments Suspected of Midnight Merriment!

There’s STRANGE, and then there’s STRANGER. In the heart of Portugal, there’s evidence that magnifies the latter. Evidence of a phenomena so extraordinary; statues, monuments, stone figures, all alive! Breathing inhabitants of Lisbon, hold on to your pasteis de natas and take a swig of your ginja – as the Secret Informer unfolds the saga of Lisbon’s laughing statues.

The chatter amongst locals has scaled new heights ever since nocturnal giggles were first heard filtering through the city’s shadowed alleys. Now, these aren’t your run-of-the-mill, well-timed jests or an insomniac audiobook enthusiast, no sir. They are claimed to be the hearty chuckles of Lisbon’s chiseled residents!

Case in point, the statue of Fernando Pessoa in the Baixa district. Known for his stony and contemplative expression, something changed one quiet Tuesday evening. Eyewitness and Bifana maestro, Senhor Mendes, reported to the Secret Informer about an “unexpected snort and a belly laugh” that seemed to be issuing from the Pessoa dwelling. “It was as if he had suddenly received the punchline to an outstanding joke about absurdism,” quivered Mendes.

The story spins wilder and eerily consistent. In Alfama, the playful laughter of children around the statue of St. Vincent gave way to reality – it was the statue itself, chuckling away. Tourists, locals, the friendly neighbourhood fado singers – all attest to the gleeful guffaws that send the tranquil Alfama cats scurrying. Joana, a seasoned sangria server, swears she even heard the statue whispering, ‘Applause, applause, my seagull friends, the show will return after a short intermission!’

Even Marques de Pombal, the stern historical marvel standing tall on the lofty roundabout of the city, is not immune to this jovial jinx. Late-night drivers have recounted tales of a booming laughter reverberating through their car radios, often accompanied by playfully sarcastic traffic directions. One driver exclaimed, “I swear he said, ‘Next up, we take a slight left at the flying sardine!’ He’s got a wicked sense of humour for a man made of stone.”

But why now? Speculation is rampant. Theories include the potential building-up of comic energy fed by years of tourist selfies. Another hypothesis suggests that Lisbon’s statues have been infected with a ‘comedy pandemic’, a contagion passed on by late-night stand-up comedy shows held within the earshot of these statues.

While scientists struggle to understand these peculiarities, exorcists and mediums across the city have witnessed a surge in business. “Laughter yoga for statues” seminars are being regularly held in public squares. Giggling gargoyle talismans are hot-selling items. And believe it or not, a start-up promising “anti-hilarity spray for statues” has begun to turn heads.

Yet, many citizens are embracing this unexpected wave of mirth. Grandmother Mariana bakes rissois de camarao every afternoon for the jovial statue at the corner of her street. “He laughs at my jokes. Doesn’t interrupt. I think we’re dating,” she cheekily confesses.

The laughter shows no sign of abating, and for now, Lisbon remains a city resounding with the chuckles of its granite guardians. As people somewhat unsettled, and mostly amused, coexist with their newly happy stone compatriots, the city awaits new turns in the ongoing merriment saga unfolding under its ancient orange roofs.

Midnight’s silent shroud, as it seems, is being lifted by the laughter of concrete camaraderie. But remember, we bring you this story with a pinch of humour and a dash of salt; after all, isn’t life too short for sober, solemn statues?