There you are on stage, beads of sweat
rolling down your face, but you smile,
speak to the crowd, trying to illicit
that same reaction of laughter
you first recieved when
it felt so natural.
Now you stretch and fixate on the wrong part of a raunchy story,
and work a crowd much
hungrier for wit, and humor.
You forget I have seen you at your peak, and how you admitted you
were ashamed that your timing and
subject matter was questionable.
Still, you trek along advising seats
if people don’t like your “humor”,
which is laughable for comedy, because
nothing you say in ranty posts
on femenism, gender roles,
thoughts on introverts, and body shaming, is even remotely funny.
If you claim importance
to dissect life in order to find humor, perhaps you should go
back to Medieval medicine, with blood
letting and the leeches.
Truly, even Swift warns about public
dissections, Lewis was against them too.
But seriously? You self-important pig,
to tell us that we don’t know funny because
occasionally you say something
offensive, demeaning, and untrue,
passing it off as some pearl of wisdom.
You have no idea the amount of time
I spend, looking to make myself laugh.
How, I can laugh for hours at
Aziz, Dana Carvey, or Craig Ferguson,
but with you, I find a cringe to be
a better way to express my emotions.
Take away the anger and the hatred,
it pours out when you perform.
This isn’t a soapbox for you to play
to fans who love when you are crass.
Ignorance begets ignorance, and
I am done with trying to pretend
I’m entertained by spotty punchlines,
and thinly veiled misogyny.