Why Some Jokes Stay With People Forever
Insights From The Viral King, Maury Povich: Pt. 2 (Comedy Mindhacks #127)
Every now and then, I come across a book or an article I wasn’t at all looking for, but ends up sticking with me after I finish reading it. For instance, a friend on Facebook recently posted an article from The Atlantic. It sounded intriguing enough. So, I opened it and, before too long, found myself nodding along to the author’s claims that we’re entering what the author calls a “post-literate” age.1
As a Professor of Writing, I see it firsthand. Reading rates are definitely continuing to decline, attention spans are continuing to shrink, and more people are consuming short videos rather than long books. Whether every statistic in Rose Horowitch’s article “The End of Reading Is Here” is exactly right isn’t really a point I care to address here. There’s actually another question or, better yet, a set of questions, I’ve spent some time thinking about since reading it.
For instance: If fewer people are reading than ever before then why, of all people, are we still reading Shakespeare? Why are students still studying Romeo and Juliet? Why does Hamlet continue to be performed around the world? Why do people who have never actually read Shakespeare still recognize lines like, “To be or not to be,” or, “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” Four hundred years have passed, civilizations have changed, technology has transformed almost everything about human life, and yet Shakespeare somehow refuses to disappear. Why is that?
Well, here’s where I say, as comedians, I think questions like this can offer great insight. As joke writers, we spend a tremendous amount of time asking whether something is funny, but probably not enough time asking whether it’s memorable. Those aren’t the same thing. Plenty of jokes get laughs in the room only to disappear the moment the audience walks out the door. Others somehow lodge themselves in people’s minds for years, and I don’t think that’s an accident.
So, that question was bouncing around in my head when I finished reading precisely because, the day before, I’d watched a Maury Povich interview (I mentioned it in my last article HERE). Toward the end of the conversation, the interviewer asked Maury why certain moments from his show became part of pop culture while thousands of other segments quietly disappeared. I expected him to talk about ratings, controversy, or television production. Instead, he pointed to…wait for it…Shakespeare.
Maury explained that his producers were always looking for timeless human themes. They searched for conflict, betrayal, jealousy, greed, love, family, and the emotional struggles that have captivated people for centuries. It didn’t matter whether the setting was a television studio, a Shakespearean stage, or someone’s living room because the setting was never really the point. Human beings are endlessly fascinated by the same conflicts because human nature hasn’t changed nearly as much as our technology has.
The more I thought about it, the more I realized this applies directly to another area of stand-up comedy, namely, joke writing. Many of us spend our time writing jokes about inconveniences. We complain about airport security, slow drivers, self-checkout machines, weird neighbors, or customer service calls that never seem to end. Those jokes can absolutely get laughs, but they rarely stay with people. Why? Because the underlying stakes are small. Once the inconvenience disappears, so does the joke.
That realization led me to start asking different kinds of questions whenever I write. Instead of asking whether a premise is funny enough, I ask what the premise is actually about. Is my airport story about airport security, or is it really about control? Is my dating joke about dating, or is it really about rejection? Is my parenting bit about my kids, or is it really about authority, expectations, sacrifice, and love? Flipping the switch like that means I’m not really writing about situations anymore; I’m writing about people, about human nature.
I’ve started calling this “The Shakespeare Test.” Whenever I stumble onto a premise I like, I ask myself what timeless human conflict is hiding underneath it. If I can’t answer that question, there’s a good chance I haven’t found the heart of the joke yet. More often than not, the first premise isn’t the real premise at all. It’s simply the doorway into something much deeper.
That one question has started to change the way I approach writing. Instead of trying to make an observation funnier, I try to uncover the deeper struggle hiding inside it. Once I know the conflict, the punchlines usually become easier because the audience instinctively understands what’s at stake. And, yes, something has to be at stake. This means the audience won’t be laughing at an inconvenience anymore but recognizing something fundamentally human in what I’m saying.
I think this also explains why certain comedians become unforgettable. Nate Bargatze isn’t really talking about airport security. Jerry Seinfeld isn’t really talking about cereal. Brian Regan isn’t really talking about meanness. Sure, the topic gets our attention, but the human conflict underneath the topic is what keeps our attention. That’s the part that survives.
Looking back, I don’t think Maury’s producers were consciously studying comedy theory. They were simply studying people. They understood that if you could connect a story to conflict, betrayal, love, fear, status, identity, or belonging, people would naturally lean in because those themes have always mattered. Shakespeare knew it. The Bible demonstrates it. Great storytellers throughout history have all been mining the same territory.
And, as I mentioned in the last post, that’s one reason I’ve become increasingly interested in studying people outside the comedy world. So, the next time I sit down to write a joke, I obviously will still want it to be funny. Before I worry about the punchline, though, I’m gonna ask myself a different question: Will anyone still care about this joke once the surface topic disappears? If the answer lies in one of those timeless human struggles, I probably have something worth exploring. If it doesn’t, I may still be writing about the surface instead of the story.
That’s the second lesson Maury Povich unexpectedly taught me. Great performers don’t simply collect funny moments. They uncover the timeless human conflicts hiding inside ordinary life. The comedians who learn to do the same don’t just get bigger laughs, they create jokes people remember long after the show is over. So, while Rose Horowitch may argue in her article that the end of reading is here, as a reader and writer myself, I’ll continue to keep learning from the greats, like Shakespeare and even Maury, because they’ve tapped into something that’ll never end.
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See “The End of Reading Is Here” by Rose Horowitch (Last accessed 7/9/26): https://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/2026/08/reading-crisis-postliterate-age/687618/.