Every few months, a minor media scandal erupts around an off-color joke or offensive comedy riff. Each new incident brings a slew of articles about tastelessness in comedy that inevitably turn into comments-section-and-social-media screaming matches, point-winning debates that do little but irritate loyal comedy fans stuck in the middle. And then, just as suddenly, things go back to normal, as if it was a one-off, as if comedy is an occasional thing that happens at award shows gaffes a thing that only occasionally occur onstage, instead of every single night in every single city in the country.
“The blowback from prejudice and ignorance is over-sensitivity and politically correct outrage,” Joe Rogan recently tweeted. “We are a nation overrun with silly bitches.” He’s right, in his own caustic way. When only people talking about appropriateness in comedy are humorless social gatekeepers, it forces the discussion into “You can’t say that” versus “Leave us alone,” while the question that comedy fans care about—is it actually funny?—is overlooked.
There are those that believe, or at least wish, that comedy was the Wild West, but their insistence doesn’t make it so. Comedy, at least for the moment, and possibly for good, has moved into the mainstream. Louis C.K. has become a household name as he’s collected Emmys and revolutionized direct-selling, and an increasing number of podcasts hosts are popping up on their own TV shows. As comedy, particularly stand-up, becomes a more recognized art form, it invites more scrutiny. Comics don’t have to like it; this isn’t really about them. It’s about the fans, the audience, the consumer, anyone who cares enough to read the comedy issue of a magazine—and that’s a pretty vast audience.
The go-to defense for a comedian accused of being offensive is always, “It’s just a joke.” This dismissive tone attempts to take the wind out of any argument about the content of the artist’s material. But it shouldn’t. There are genuine arguments to me made about the things comics should and should not be saying on stage. And those of us paying attention should be saying them. Don’t make me feel bad for not wanting to hear your offensive musings, don’t make me feel like a prude for thinking cruelty isn’t funny, and for the love of God, don’t make it my fault when you’re not funny enough.
Too many times, from many comedians I respect, have I heard the “It’s just a joke” defense, and I’ve struggled to articulate why it is so infuriating and insulting as a critic and an audience member. Here’s my best shot: “But, it’s just a joke.” If you have to say it, maybe it’s not a good enough joke, though. There are great, edgy bits that don’t tip over into offensive because they’re painstakingly crafted comedy. If it’s really good, it won’t be misconstrued. Not by most people, at least.
All jokes are absurd—that’s their most fundamental quality. If your joke doesn’t have the degree of absurdity needed to make its premise clear and funny, then it’s understandable that someone may not interpret it as such.
“I’m just a clown. People shouldn’t take me seriously.”
Comedy has been used to make points and satirize society since the days of Aristophanes. Comedians have used their platform to say something significant, and it’s reasonable for an audience to think that the person on stage is trying to say something real.
The point of the court jester was to tell the truth. That was a unique position to be in, and only allowed if he could be funny. From the fool in King Lear to every precocious child in a sitcom, the idea of the silly-but-wise has only reinforced this role of a clown as a truth teller.