My Mount Rushmore of Stand-Up Comedy

If you’ve ever spent more than five minutes talking comedy with me, you know I have opinions. About jokes, about delivery, about why club mics always seem to have that faint smell of failure and bad breath baked into them. But nothing sparks a good debate like this question: who’s on your Mount Rushmore of stand-up comedy?

Now, let’s be clear: Mount Rushmore debates are a little ridiculous. First, there’s the idea that you can condense an entire art form into four faces, which, honestly, feels like a setup for a bad joke. If we were to ask Bob Ross, he’d probably say, “We need more happy little faces.” Second, the actual Mount Rushmore is a tourist trap in the middle of South Dakota, which doesn’t exactly scream funny, kind of like the middle-schoolesr who would say it’s the middle of the bra section at Wal-Mart. Still, the question persists. And people ask me all the time: who’s your favorite comedian? Who’s on your Mount Rushmore? So, as someone who spends way too much time thinking about this stuff, I’m actually a bit happy to oblige. As such, here’s my Mount Rushmore of stand-up comedy, my personal pantheon of legends. These are the comedians who have influenced me in profound ways.

First up is Kevin Nealon. There’s something so effortless about his comedy, a kind of laid-back absurdity that sneaks up on you. I mean, the man delivers punchlines like he’s telling you about the weather, and somehow it’s the funniest thing you’ve ever heard. Watching Nealon perform is like watching someone casually toss a Frisbee, only to realize they’ve hit an imaginary bullseye on kid’s forehead 50 feet away. His ability to stay calm and collected, to work an audience, all while delivering absolute gems is something I aspire to every time I write a joke or step on stage.

Next is Demetri Martin, who might be the most creatively diverse comedian I’ve ever seen. Martin’s comedy is like origami—every fold is deliberate, every word perfectly placed, and the result is something that feels both intricate and deceptively simple. His wordplay, his drawings, his ability to take a throwaway observation and turn it into a full-blown masterpiece—he’s the kind of comedian who makes you wonder, How did I not think of that? Indeed, he’s the kind of comedian who, if you’re a comedian, makes you both jealous and grateful.

Then there’s Nate Bargatze, the epitome of a comedian who makes stand-up, much less clean stand-up, just look easy. Bargatze’s charm is in his self-deprecating southern relatability, his knack for taking everyday life and spinning it into comedy gold. He doesn’t need gimmicks or elaborate setups; he just needs a microphone and a story about his dad, and suddenly the whole room is rolling. Watching Bargatze, you feel like you’re sitting on a porch with a friend who happens to be the funniest person you’ve ever met. That’s the dream, isn’t it? To make comedy feel like a conversation, not a performance.

Finally, we have Todd Barry, the king of deadpan, the roaster par excellence. Barry’s comedy is so dry, it could be used to cure meat. His delivery is so understated, it makes the punchlines hit even harder because you never see them coming. And yet, beneath the calm, almost monotone exterior is a razor-sharp wit that slices through any room. Barry is proof that you don’t need to yell or bounce around the stage to own an audience; sometimes, all you need is a well-timed pause and the audacity to let silence do some of the heavy lifting.

Now, if I were going to commission a second Mount Rushmore—because let’s face it, narrowing this down to four is a comedy nerd’s version of torture—it would feature Ricky Gervais, Adam Sandler, Dave Chappelle, and Mitch Hedberg. That’s right: two Mount Rushmores. I’m breaking all the rules here. Gervais for his unapologetic irreverence, Sandler for his sheer silliness, Chappelle for his storytelling brilliance, and Hedberg for the way he turned one-liners into an art form.

But here’s the thing about comedy: it’s not a contest (despite there actually being a lot of contests). My Mount Rushmore isn’t yours, and it doesn’t need to be. Comedy is personal. It’s shaped by who you are, where you’ve been, and what makes you laugh until you can’t breathe. For me, Nealon, Martin, Bargatze, and Barry represent different facets of the comedy I admire most—effortlessness, precision, relatability, and wit.

So, there you have it. My Mount Rushmore of stand-up comedy, plus a bonus mountain for good measure. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go rewatch some Todd Barry sets and remind myself that sometimes, the best punchline is delivered with nothing more than a raised eyebrow and a perfectly timed sigh.