The last working bulb on the stage at the Chuckle Bucket flickered like it knew a punchline was coming. Marty’s set was one of the few that still had punchlines. The other comedians just did their 7-minute sets by conversing with the sparse audience, asking them about their problems. It wasn’t funny, but it made the handful of people in the room at least feel heard, and, in reality, that was probably what they came for. The comedy clubs were all closing ever since Trump signed an executive order that the government had to approve all jokes.
Marty still told jokes. But he was very careful about how he phrased them. “I want you to know that I love this President,” he said, “I really, really love him. I love him so much I named my ulcer after him.”
The crowd chuckled, cautiously. A laminated sign on each table read: “Please laugh responsibly.” Even the regulars, the ones who dropped in more than once a week, didn’t know what to make of that sign. Was it a joke? Or was it serious? Several times when a joke landed perfectly, a person passing by the club might be able to hear laughter coming from within. It might make them curious, but they dared not go inside. On the respectability scale, Comedy clubs were ranked somewhere between pornographic theaters and whore houses.
Marty riffed on the new Federal regulations, that he said had just come out that morning:
- No impersonations can be performed unless pre-approved by the Bureau of Comedy, unless, of course, you were making fun of Democrats. Those got exceptions, except for impersonators who did Biden. It seems that too many impersonators, when they were questioned by the comedy police for doing bits where they acted like a stupid, senile old man, would just swear that they weren’t making fun of the current President. They argued that they were doing Biden. To put a stop to that defense, all Biden impersonators were henceforth outlawed.
- No satire was allowed unless it was accompanied by a disclaimer that it was created using AI.”
Marty leaned into the absurdity:
“I tried to do a bit once about my uncle’s conspiracy theories. My act got flagged for ‘unauthorized nostalgia.’ My license to be a comedian was revoked for six months. It was terrible, a life without comedy. I felt like I was in Alabama.”
The audience winced. They hoped that no Republican politician from Alabama would ever hear that joke. They didn’t want Marty to mysteriously disappear like so many other comedians had.
Marty moved on. “I had a dream about the President this week. I went to my therapist and asked her if that was normal. She asked me if I woke up screaming. I said yes, and she said, Don’t worry about it, then. That’s normal.”
The four people in the audience laughed nervously.
“Don’t worry, folks. I’ve got my Passport ready.”
He looked offstage for a second. “Well, that’s my time.” He closed with the line that had become his signature—less a joke, more a eulogy:
“And remember, he who laughs Last… turns out the lights.”
He threw the switch that shut off the electricity to the one lightbulb that lit the stage, and he walked towards the bar. The four people in the room stood up, not in ovation, but in quiet recognition. Marty wasn’t just a local comic. He was the custodian of what used to be funny.
Peace & Love, and all of the above,
Earl
earlthepearl137 