A Week In The Feed Of A Stand-Up Comedy Scene’s Facebook Group


The host of an open mic remembers to actually advertise the open mic three minutes before the last comic on the list gets onstage. He vows to do better next week but, fortunately, the venue goes out of business far before then.


A booker who lives two hours away spams a series of poorly-designed flyers for shows that have no spots left in the hopes that someone will actually be in the audience for once. He is sorely disappointed.

A non-profit organization’s social media marketing guru asks if anyone is willing to do thirty minutes of G-rated material for burn victims at a children’s hospital. The filthiest comic in the scene immediately agrees, without reading the fine print or, later, the room.


A comedian so new they have not actually done stand-up yet or even written a single joke asks anyone and everyone for more stage time. This gets four likes — one is ironic and three are sympathetic.

The organizer for a trivia night asks whether any local comics would be interested in hosting one only to be derided for daring to post something non-stand-up related on a stand-up comedy page. We all beg for forgiveness once it is revealed that hosting pays in the form of chicken tenders.


The owner of a coffee shop that holds a poetry and music open mic once a month makes a desperate plea for comedians to stop coming. “It’s not that we don’t like to laugh,” he writes, “but we hate to cringe more.”

A Bill Hicks type, infamous for his surly stage presence and misanthropic puns, asks whether anyone is free to get brunch and maybe take a look at his mockumentary screenplay The Sheeple vs. OJ Simpson.


A female comic calls out a local headliner for sexual harassment and is instantly banned from both the group and any and all future shows. This cycle repeats itself for the next three years until enough accusers come forward to have him dropped from headliner to feature act status.


The link to a comedy festival gets dozens of likes until someone actually bothers to look into it and discovers that not only is it in Nome, Alaska, but you have to pay twenty dollars to submit a tape and rent your own dogsled team.


A Facebook war breaks out between the club comics and the alt comics that only ends when both sides agree to continue making awkward small talk with the urban comics. One lone voice of reason insists on calling them black.

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