I am asking you, as a friend, as a professional, as a person who has to pay their rent with this job: Y’all better quit bringing y’alls kids to my shows. 🤣
I am begging you.
I don’t know who needs to hear this, but a 9 PM stand-up show at a club called “The Laugh Gutter” is not a family-friendly event. It’s not! There is a two-drink minimum, and the floor is 80% “mystery sticky.” This is not a place for a child.
I walk out on stage last night in Chicago. I’m feeling good. Crowd is hot. And I look at the front row. The front row.
And there he is.
A little boy. He can’t be more than eight years old. He’s got on light-up sneakers. He’s drinking a Shirley Temple. He is vibrating from the sugar. His name is probably… I don’t know, ‘Kayden.’
And he’s just staring at me. Unblinking.
Now, you have to understand. The first joke in my set—the opener—is a 10-minute, detailed, un-Christian exploration of a terrible decision I made at a bachelorette party in 2019. It is filthy. It is wrong. It is, frankly, my best work.
I cannot, in good conscience, tell this joke to a child who still believes in the Tooth Fairy.
So I freeze. The whole crowd sees me freeze. They all turn… they all see Kayden. And the entire room just lets out this collective, “Ooooh…”
It’s a hostage situation! I’m now a babysitter, and you all are just watching.
And the parents! The parents are just sitting there, sipping their Chardonnay, smiling. Like, “Isn’t this great? We’re exposing him to the arts!”
This isn’t ‘the arts’! This is me talking about a man I met named ‘Skeeter’!
So I have to do this horrible thing where I edit myself, live. I’m like, “So I was at this… bachelorette party… and I had a real bad… stomach ache. Yeah. From… bad chicken. And I had to… ‘go home’ early.”
It’s terrible. It’s not funny. The crowd is groaning. I’m bombing, all because you couldn’t find a sitter for one night!
Y’all, you think it “goes over their head.” It does not go over their head. Kids are sponges. They are tiny little sponges for filth. You are not thinking about the car ride home. I am.
I’m thinking about you, in your Kia Telluride, when little Kayden pipes up from the back seat, “Mommy… what’s a ‘walk of shame’?”
That’s your problem now. You’ve created that.
Kayden is going to be at show-and-tell on Monday like, “This is my gecko, and this weekend I learned that… [insert my entire bit about regrettable tattoos].”
So please. For the love of God. Hire a sitter. Or just stay home. My show is rated ‘R’ for ‘Ruin Your Child’s Vocabulary.’ Stop it. 🤣
