Fibba Schmidt
Jimmy Fallon Hates Her Name
While some students choose to fly halfway around the world for study abroad, I have instead ventured to the exotic land of New York City, where I am doing an internship at a comedy club, Stand Up NY. If I have learned one thing so far in my time here, besides the fact that all comedians are narcissists, it is how to get a leg up in the cutthroat world of stand up comedy. Since the mere fact that we all attend this school proves that every student at Wooster is already used to impracticality, pursuing a comedy dream isn’t so far-fetched, and I would like to offer a bit of insight.
Every comedy hatchling begins their long, grueling trek to glory at open mics. A mainstay at every comedy club, an open mic is, in theory, an opportunity for comics to test new material and receive feedback in front of an audience and in a supportive environment. In reality, an open mic is more like watching a family of sloths fight to the death with brass knuckles; clumsy, painful and usually without a purpose. The audience will only include other desperate schmucks sneaking out of their day jobs to waste an hour of daylight in a dark club that looks more like a curiously empty basement during open mic hours, and they will either half-heartedly give you some pity laughs or stoically stare as you sweat onstage. Open mics are the deepest circle of comedy hell.
The key is to get noticed. Most clubs charge five dollars for five minutes; offer 10, and refuse change because you feel that this beacon of comedic brilliance deserves more money for allowing your humble self to pander on a real stage. All clubs love money above all else, no matter what they tell you. I am not suggesting bribery, but if money changes hands you won’t suddenly have the Feds pounding down your door. Suck up to the host of the mic; laugh uproariously at everything he says, from his overdone jokes about online dating (this subject will soon be the new “airplane food”) to his innocent comments about the weather. Trust me, anything you can do to stroke his ego will get you far. Most importantly, don’t ever complain that “mic” is misspelled.
Expect to put about a decade of time into open mics before you maybe get bumped up to a paid spot, but once again, there are ways to expedite this. Get in the good favor of every single booker in town. Like your fellow comedians, most booker are narcissists, and will say that they will contact you in order to offer you spots, and will say that they hear from far too many starving comics to meet with and watch everyone, but this is merely an elaborate scheme to separate those with real ambition from the rest of the pack.
Memorize his subway schedule and perform stand up in the middle of a packed train that he is sure to be riding. Find his home address and tell jokes in his elevator. If he plays in a basketball league at his local YMCA, you had better be courtside at every game shouting your best sports-related puns. Again, it’s all about being noticed.
Finally, once you’ve been given real spots, be funny. Before you wait for Ashton Kutcher to jump out from behind your door and inform you that you’re being Punk’d after hearing that groundbreaking secret, you should know, first of all, that Ashton doesn’t run Punk’d anymore, but second of all that I have seen more than enough purely unfunny people try to tell jokes on stage. Too many fledgling comedians with a mild interest and a YouTube account have watched Dane Cook and said to themselves that he doesn’t have anything that they don’t. Please — if you think that your comedy talent is on par with Dane Cook, do us all a favor and get a job at Burger King, because you aren’t funny.
If all else fails, get rich and buy your own club. If you give out enough free drinks, you won’t even have to openly pay people to laugh at you.