In a meta-example, reading Wells describing in letters and diaries how much vicarious pleasure he's getting out of wiping out his hated dull middle-class homestead and his boring neighbours with death rays, poison gas and tentacled aliens drinking everyone's blood can be hilarious.
I'm doing the dearest little serial for Pearson's new magazine, in which I completely wreck and sack Woking — killing my neighbours in painful and eccentric ways — then proceed via Kingston and Richmond to London, which I sack, selecting South Kensington for feats of peculiar atrocity.
Large Ham Col. Ralph Heffner's disintegration in mid-sentence always made me laugh:
Ralph Heffner: Everybody out of here, everybody out! The Air Force will take care of these babies now. Doctor Forrester, get out of here! Everybody out of here! everybody ou -...
It's pretty much a case of "dark humor" but, I always chuckle at the reporter who gets indignant, not that he and his species is being attacked. Oh no, he's mad that the aliens messed with his equipment.
Radio Reporter: Hey! They cut me off. They got my truck!
Like a kitten about to attack a bull dog for some imaginary offense.
The whole fact that the movie's hero is named Dr. Clayton Forrester. Of course, this was the source of the name in the first place.
The townspeople debating what to do with the meteor.
Hogue: Meteors always run heavy. They won't be able to haul this away to no museum. (getting an idea) It'll be a real good attraction for Sunday drivers.
Wash Perry: Better than a lion farm or a snake pit. We won't have to feed it!
Salvatore: Sure! We could sell the tamales and enchiladas and hot dogs too!
Forest Ranger: Yeah, ice cream, sold drinks, souvenirs!
Uncle Matthew: I think we should put up a few picnic tables.
Hogue: No, no, then they'll bring their own lunches!