There’s an important difference between twisted and sick. Dead baby jokes are twisted, but telling them at a SIDS funeral is sick. It might relieve the tension in the room, but I’d hold off unless you really know your crowd.
Schadenfreude too is to be shared only with those one can be sure would share it. So until I know you better, rest assured that I took no joy whatsoever in the fall of Saigon, the Twin Towers, and now Kabul. But if I did, would that be sick or just twisted?
The essence of humour is the juxtaposition of incommensurables. So let’s be honest. Sometimes what makes something funny is precisely that it’s anything but. Try, “What’s black and blue and doesn’t like sex? The four-year-old in my trunk.” This will get you either a look of total disgust, a polite smile, a suppressed smile, or someone down-on-the-floor holding his sides in agony. And what this shows is that humour is an indexical. Not unlike music or movies, it’s gendered, it’s cultural, and it’s a function of the hearer’s own personal history.
Umberto Eco’s The Name of the Rose is a story about the power of humour to subvert, and so the fear of that power. The SJW worries that even a little levity will take the wind out of her sails. She’ll use it to mock the system, but never herself. This is a mistake. If you can’t laugh at yourself no one will think you either twisted or sick. But they will think you scary. And scary is precisely the way not to win friends and influence people. So next time you join a BLM march, try doing it in blackface.