Franklin had been telling jokes for years, mostly to the mirror in his bathroom and occasionally to his cat, Mr. Pickles, who—let’s be honest—was a tough audience. Mr. Pickles rarely laughed, unless Franklin accidentally tripped over a shoe, which admittedly happened more often than Franklin would like to admit. Still, Franklin dreamed of standing on a real stage with a real crowd. He wanted that moment when the room goes quiet, and then suddenly erupts with laughter that shakes the floorboards.
So, when he finally signed up for an open-mic night at a local comedy club, he decided he would go all in—not just with jokes, but with crowd work. The problem? Franklin had never done crowd work in his life. Talking to strangers in front of a hundred other strangers seemed like a surefire way to accidentally start a bar fight. But hey, comedy is about risk, right?
The night of the show, Franklin stood backstage nervously holding the mic, palms sweaty like a bad Eminem song. His set list was written neatly on a napkin, but halfway through the wait, he realized the napkin was now a soggy wad in his pocket. Improvisation it was.
He walked onstage to polite applause, adjusted the mic, and tried to remember to breathe. “So,” he began, scanning the crowd, “who here thought this was karaoke night and is now deeply disappointed?” A few chuckles. Encouraging. He locked eyes with a man in the front row wearing a Hawaiian shirt that looked like it had survived a blender accident.
“Sir, did you lose a bet, or is this shirt your way of saying you’re on permanent vacation?” The crowd roared. The man raised his beer in salute, and Franklin felt his shoulders relax. Maybe he could do this.
From there, it spiraled into beautiful chaos. Franklin spotted a couple who looked like they were on a first date. “So, how’s it going so far? Blink twice if you’re regretting this choice.” The woman laughed so hard she nearly spilled her drink, while the man nervously insisted it was going great. Franklin raised an eyebrow: “Buddy, she’s laughing at me, not your jokes. Step up your game.” The audience howled.
At one point, Franklin noticed a group of college students in the back trying to sneak shots under the table. “Look, if you’re going to illegally drink, at least share with the performer. I’m up here sweating out anxiety while you’re having tequila courage.” That got a cheer, and someone actually handed him a shot mid-set. Franklin tossed it back, coughed like an amateur, and the crowd loved every second.
By the end of the night, Franklin had barely touched his original material. The entire set became a back-and-forth with the audience—teasing, reacting, riffing, and rolling with whatever they threw at him. It wasn’t polished. It wasn’t perfect. But it was real, raw, and hilarious.
When the host came back on stage, Franklin received an ovation that felt bigger than the small club should’ve been able to hold. Walking offstage, he realized something: the mirror and Mr. Pickles had prepared him for silence, but the crowd had shown him the magic of laughter.
That night, Franklin discovered his comedy sweet spot wasn’t just telling jokes—it was connecting with people, one ridiculous Hawaiian shirt at a time.
