If you’ve ever seen a comedian bomb on stage, you know the silence can be pretty brutal. And if you see them bomb for an entire set, it can make you question all your life choices, especially why you even showed up to the show. More often than not, I think that kind of awkward moment comes down to one of three things: 1) The comedian didn’t bother to actually write jokes; 2) The comedian didn’t bother to research and understand their audience; and/or, 3) The comedian doesn’t know who they are.
Contrast this with comedians who actually do well: you know they’ve put in the reps. You know they’ve learned how to write and how to read a room. But most importantly, you know they’ve figured out who they are and how they see the world. Because that’s what people really come for. People come to comedy shows not just jokes, but for a fresh perspective, a way of looking at life that they haven’t heard before.
When I first started out, like a lot of new comedians, I was imitating comedians I admired and liked. I didn’t have a real voice yet; so, I borrowed one from those I looked up to. And, of course, that’s natural. Athletes do it, too. Jordan studied Dr. J. Kobe studied Jordan. But at some point, Jordan’s game had to become his own and Kobe’s had to become his own. Stand-up comedy’s no different. At some point, your game has to become your game.
Your quirks, your background, your weird inner monologue, that’s what separates you from the pack, from every other person with a mic and a notebook. Imagine going to a comedy show and sitting through three comedians in a row who all sound the same, look the same, and tell the same jokes about dating apps. You’d want your cover charge back.
Again: audiences aren’t just looking for laughs, they’re looking for unique views from unique humans. They want a real human with a specific lens on the world. That, by the way, is one of the reasons AI isn’t incredibly helpful for stand-up comedians. Your perspective gets lost. Yes, you might be able to train it to imitate you, but it’ll always be just that—an imitation.
There’ve been times where I’ve tried material that wasn’t really me. I’ve tested out a couple of edgy jokes that, on paper, technically worked. But they didn’t work for me. I’m just not that guy! I don’t do edgy or vulgar as a husband, as a dad, as a professor, as a preacher. Therefore, I shouldn’t do it as a comedian. And you wanna know what the wild part is here? When I did material that wasn’t really me, even strangers in the crowd could tell.
Strangers. People in the crowd who had never seen or heard me knew. How? Because there’s something about saying things that don’t match who you are that the audience can sniff it out immediately. It flops, not because the joke isn’t funny in theory, but because it doesn’t feel true. And I felt it, too. I wasn’t passionate about the material. I wasn’t connected to it emotionally. And if you’re not into your own material, why should the audience be?
My best material comes from my actual life. Things my wife says, things my kids do, stuff I overhear from my students, right there’s where the humor lives. That’s where the authenticity is. Something that’s been helpful is learning not to box myself in. My friend, comedian Tommy Morin, gave me a great reminder about that when we were chatting on the phone this week.
I’m a dad, a professor, a theologian, a Bible scholar, and a preacher. Those aren’t separate identities I check at the door before going on stage. They’re all part of the who I really am and the lens I use to see the world. And if I shut any of them out, I’m closing off a big chunk of what makes me funny in the first place. The overlap is the magic. That’s where my voice lives. It’s not about putting on a “comedian hat.” It’s about letting all the parts of my life spill over into the material in a way that feels natural and real.
This is also why I think it’s harder in some ways for younger comedians. They might not have as many roles or identities to drop into. And they haven’t lived as much life yet. They haven’t been through the kind of tough stuff that audiences deeply relate to. Things like marriage, parenting, bills, job stress, aging, health stuff, the joys and mess of adult life.
That’s why a lot of young comedians end up sounding the same. They’re drawing from the same pool of experience, which usually leads to similar punchlines or defaulting to shock humor for a cheap laugh. But even if they haven’t lived through everything yet, they still have something valuable, namely, their current point of view. And if they can lean into that, instead of trying to sound like someone they’re not, they’ll start to carve out a voice that’s truly their own.
So, when I say in the title of this article, “You’re lucky to be you,” what I really mean is this: you’ve been gifted with a completely unique set of experiences. You’ve lived a life no one else on earth has lived, and you’ve done it all through your one-of-a-kind lens. That perspective is irreplaceable. It’s the raw material that makes your voice yours, your comedy yours, your story yours. So, instead of running from it or comparing it to someone else’s, lean into it. Embrace it. Use it to help people see the world a little differently and, if you do it right, a little funnier, too.
By the way, if you have any interest at all in learning to write some jokes or doing stand-up comedy, you should check out my online joke writing course, “The Joke Writer’s Lab,” HERE. It’s totally worth it.