Snakebite, by Arthur Bradford

I enjoyed a seemingly unassuming short story by Arthur Bradford in McSweeney's Quarterly Concern #21 quite a bit, giggling through the whole thing, without quite being able to realize why (I still don't know why). Here's the start of it:

We were riding in a car together, Clifford, his wife Jolene, and I. Clifford was at the wheel and Jolene sat next to him, up front. I was in the back. We were running late, on our way to the wedding of a friend named Margaret out in the hills of Virginia. According to Jolene, I was underdressed. I had neglected to bring a tie, and, instead of shoes, I was wearing a pair of sneakers.

"You look like a jackass," said Jolene.

"It's a country wedding," I said. "This is appropriate."

Somehow that first exchange, "You look like a jackass"—"This is appropriate" caused me to giggle audibly. Then everything else Jolene says, for the rest of story—again—more giggling.

The whole story is like that—lots of giggling. But it's not really funny, somehow. Or is it? I don't know.