2 Keys To Writing Jokes

I’ve been mulling over this thought lately: There’s a difference between saying something that happens to make people laugh and crafting a joke that can’t not make people laugh.

I think the difference between the two comes down to structure. It was structure, as George Carlin quipped, that let him know whether a joke was going to hit or not before he ever took it on stage. It seems to me that, at the heart of joke structure is the ability to set an expectation and then violate that expectation in a way that surprises the audience—not just shocks them, but delights them or delightfully surprises them. It’s the craft of turning “funny” into a system, and within that system setting a norm then breaking it is key.

Let’s break this down because, as with all good things, it starts with rules. Comedy thrives on rules. Not the boring, bureaucratic kind, but the kind that tell people, “This is how the world works.” Perhaps “norms” is a better word. Setting up a norm—or expectation—is how you invite your audience into the joke. It’s your way of saying, “Hey, we all agree this is how things are, right?” The punch comes when you shatter that agreement, but in a way that feels playful, delightfully surprising, even joyous.

Here’s the thing about surprise: it works best when it feels earned. The most satisfying punches don’t come out of nowhere; they’re the logical but unexpected conclusion to the setup. And that takes a lot of practice and work. It’s a true skill to be able to twist a norm into something surprising that the audience saw coming. And “surpising” is the key word here—not “more shocking,” not “more vulgar,” not “darker.” Just surprising.

The “triple” or “rule of 3s” is a good structure for practicing this because it not only sets the norm (or: pattern), but it reiterates it, and then breaks it. For example, I’ve recently started hanging out with some Christians, those of the Presbyterian stripe. And one thing I’ve noticed is that they talk A LOT about God’s sovereignty. That’s one of their theological distinctives. That got me thinking about other denominations and the distinctives. In other words, that first thought, denominational distinctives, set the pattern. Then a second reinforced the distinctives idea, namely, that Baptists focus a lot on “assurance (of salvation).” Then I thought about Methodists, who are largely known as “liberal” these days. Their theological distinctive: pronouns.

People are expecting something theological, something like “holiness” or “justice” and so on. They’re expecting that because the first two led them to. The norm here is clear: theological distinctives. Again, I set the norm for the first, reiterated it for the second, then offered a nice twist by violating the norm for third. This works because it’s relatable and is grounded in truth. But the punchline breaks the norm by offering a surprising absurdity. Put differently, the surprise comes not because the joke gets vulgar or shocking but because it takes the norm and stretches it until it snaps—but, again, in a playful or playfully inappropriate way, as Jared Volle would say.

That’s “benign violation.” It’s the twist or surprise that catches the audience off guard but doesn’t feel mean or gross. It’s a surprise that makes them think, “Oh, I didn’t see that coming,” but also, “That makes so much sense now that I’ve heard it.”

And new comedians, if they miss the mark, this is often where it happens. There’s this tendency, especially when one’s just starting, to equate “funny” with “shocking.” Folks see seasoned comedians saying seemingly shocking things and “getting away with it.” So, they think they should imitate them by saying something vulgar, dark, or offensive, and hoping the audience laughs. But shock without structure isn’t comedy; it’s just discomfort. Sure, you might get a nervous chuckle here and there, but it’s not sustainable. It’s like junk food for laughs—momentarily satisfying or stomach-turning, but ultimately empty.

A good joke, even a dark one, needs the structure of norm and violation to land. It needs that initial expectation to give the punchline weight. Without a setup, the punchline has nothing to push against, like trying to pull off a trampoline trick on solid ground. The best surprises come from building tension—making your audience lean in, think they know where you’re going—and then pulling the rug out from under them in the most playfully satisfying way possible.

Take a dark joke, for instance. You don’t just say, “My dad walked out on us when I was five,” and expect people to laugh. That’s not a joke; it’s a therapy session. But if you set up a norm first—something relatable, even wholesome—you can turn it into something funny. A joke I’m working on right now starts with me reminiscing about a sweet childhood memory: washing my dad’s car with him when I was five. The norm is clear: childhood innocence, father-son bonding. But then the punchline breaks it: “Turns out, we were washing it so he could use it later that day…to skip town…forever.”

Why does that work? Because it’s unexpected but not shocking for the sake of shock. It escalates the situation in a way that’s absurd but grounded. It takes the norm—the idyllic memory—and flips it on its head, but with a wink instead of a hammer.

The second key principle is making the twist bigger. And by bigger, I don’t mean louder or more aggressive—I mean surprising in a way that’s disproportionate to the setup. A bigger twist often involves taking the expectation to its logical extreme or adding an extra layer of absurdity. For example, in the car-washing joke, I could do that by adding some anthropomorphizing: “The car was the only one who knew. At one point, it was like, ‘Kid…you’re gonna want to sit down for this.’” That tag makes the twist bigger by giving the car a voice, taking the already ridiculous scenario to the next level.

The beauty of this approach is that it works for any type of humor, from lighthearted to dark. Even if your joke dives into uncomfortable territory, making the twist playful keeps it from feeling mean-spirited. You’re inviting your audience to laugh with you, not at anyone else’s expense. That’s why benign violations are so powerful—they let you push boundaries and even cross them but without going too far, to the point where it’s no longer playful.

Let’s circle back to the idea of new comedians relying on shock. The problem isn’t just that shock lacks structure; it’s that it’s lazy. Anyone can say something outrageous and hope for a reaction. But crafting a joke that surprises and delights requires skill. It requires understanding your audience, knowing what norms they’ll buy into, and finding the perfect way to violate those norms in a way that feels fresh.

Good jokes often leave the audience thinking, “I can’t believe they went there—but I’m so glad they did.” That’s the sweet spot. Not shocking for shock’s sake, but surprising in a way that feels earned. It’s the difference between someone saying, “Wow, that was clever,” and someone saying, “Wow, that was…a lot.”

So, when I’m writing jokes, I try to remember these two things: Set the norm. Set up an expectation the audience can buy into. Then violate that norm in a way that surprises them, preferably with something bigger and more absurd than they imagined. Humor lives in the space between what people think will happen and what actually happens. It’s fun to play in that space and make others glad they came along for the ride.