I Wish I Could Quit Comedy

I don’t remember the first time I wanted to quit, but I remember the first time I felt it.

It was a small stand up show I was booked on with a comic who has now been outed as a problematic comedy figure. This person and I weren’t on the best of terms; they were a predator who had previously refused to compensate me properly for building and contributing to their projects and I was like “hey… don’t do that”. But they were a more established comic, booker, and producer, and I was a relative nobody (and love that I still am); it was a losing battle that was costing me opportunities. When the lineup was announced — filled to the brim with comics from their “collective” — I wanted to drop out of the show. My friends told me to “claim my space” (as a white man? Wouldn’t dream of it…) so I didn’t drop out (… okay, maybe I could dream of it).

The show wasn’t well attended; it was only comics and two “audience members”. So, a typical stand up show. I tried to be polite to the other comics but was met with cold shoulders. I just wanted to do my set and get out.

The second I hit the stage, all the comics on the show (very suddenly and very loudly) got up and left the venue. Including the host. They didn’t return until I finished my set.

I sat in the back for the rest of the show quietly in shock. The minute the venue lights went on, I headed out the door and sobbed on the streetcar blasting The Good Side by Troye Sivan on repeat for the hour it would take me to get home. As I channeled the truest height of a sad twink aesthetic, I promised myself I’d never do stand up again.

Cut to three months later, when I was flown out to Los Angeles to perform in front of two thousand people opening for one of my comedy heroes. So, you know, trauma only prevents so much. Oh well.

As this horrid year has come and gone, I’ve heard comedians lament over the absence of performing for substantial crowds. We’ve tried adjusting to this time of isolation, taking to Zoom or Instagram live to fill the void of audience interactions; uploading TikTok and YouTube videos trying to gain virality; starting podcasts through the microphone on our Apple wired headphones. Though they provide momentary relief and laughter, it’s basically a piece of scotch tape trying to hold the damn of tears from flooding our faces. During these dark times, comedians have asked themselves, “What’s the point of doing this anymore?” And to that I say, “Oh hi, where the fuck have you been you dumb bitch? Get in here, I made scones.”

I’m someone who used to perform a lot but has recently slowed down. Mostly for mental health reasons (see above, or my therapist), but more because no one ever really considers me when producing a show. I don’t mean to seem ungrateful or arrogant or big-headed. I’m just frustrated with a community that I’ve put a lot of time, effort, and money into that so clearly has rejected me. Yet every time I promise myself I’m going to stop performing — here I am, begging people to add me to their lineups.

Truth be told, I hate being a comedian, especially in Canada. You’re expected to work for free for years before cracking the industry’s beehive that will give you a few drops of sweet, sweet honey at the price of getting stung. It’s a chaotic mine field of where you navigate self-entitled producers who think they can get away with being an asshole, yet can barely afford the Junior Chicken they’re scarfing down in a dark corner of a dusty subway car.

I also hate comedians. No offence to everyone who I’ve met, loved, and still work with. I don’t know where I’d be without you, and it has made my life better having you in it. I’ve met and worked with some amazingly talented people who’ve enriched my experience, and I hope to work with you all again once it is safe to do so.

The rest of you fucking suck.

Comedians are some of the flakiest, most vapid, shallowest people who celebrate bootlicking ladder climbers over talented people. They’re predators, xenophobes, narcissists, Jimmy Fallon playing board games, and James Corden singing in a car. If I have to endure another “conversation” that’s just a tall emaciated man shouting his thin premise while he knocks back a Junior Chicken (why do comics love McDonald’s so much?!), I’m going to smash the beer bottle I was forced to get with my performer sanctioned drink ticket and shove it into my ear.

Honestly, despite everything I’ve listed (and much… much more), I love comedy. Ever since I hit rock bottom and Googled “open mics in my area”, I’ve felt like I could do nothing else. I wish I could do anything else. Corporate communications officer, in-house marketing coordinator, small claims trial stenographer; something that is equally soul sucking, but without having to rely on saltwater gargling to fix a cavity.

So here I am, deep into my comedy career, and what has happened? Yes, I’ve written for television. Yes, I’ve met and worked with some of my heroes. Yes, I ran a pseudo-successful Riverdale podcast (and yes, this IS the most important credit, and no one [not even Roberto Aguirre-Sacasa himself] can tell me otherwise). But in an industry where your worth is measured by these shallow markers of success; I’m without work prospects, rejected from opportunities I’m “overqualified” for, back at school trying to cobble together a backup plan. I’ve learnt it’s not really about the credits, or even your work ethic. It’s about playing the game, keeping your head down, and kissing up to people and institutions who have power (no matter how problematic they may be).

I love performing comedy. As someone who was bullied throughout their childhood — which is a free space for any comics bingo card of trauma — nothing’s as satisfying as overhearing a group of smoking millennials outside a venue you just performed at say, “that gay one with the glasses was so funny!” (Look at them, reclaiming my bullying triggers). There’s no greater rush than ending an off-the-rails improv set with the perfect pig killing callback . . . too specific? Well, explaining improv to people who weren’t there makes you sound like a serial killer (but it was very good, promise). When I’ve worked hard to be funny, and it’s frustrating to gain accolades only to be met with roadblocks and failures that are so out of my control.

I’m Jack Twist in front of a mountain range with a moustache screaming at Ennis Del Mar that he doesn’t know how bad it gets, only Ennis never comes in for the hug. I’m Elle Woods taking over the Brooke Windham case to show up all my stuffy Harvard Law peers, only I get outsmarted by Linda Cardellini and lose. I’m . . . um . . . Rocky? Only I don’t win the big fight?

Okay, quick Google search tells me Rocky doesn’t win the big fight? Why do straights like this movie?!

This pandemic has forced all of us comedians to confront our relationship with comedy. For some of us (AKA me), we’ve changed our definition of what “being a comedian” mean. This is good! We need to continue a more holistic approach to comedy after the pandemic is over, and not fall back into our toxic habits of giving power to people or structures that make comedy a horrible place… Lol, jk, what a thought though, right?

I hate comedy, and I love comedy. As much as the dream of taking a break and choosing my performances more carefully is more appealing than a Junior Chicken (there is truly nothing else to order at McD’s), I have way too many issues with my father to not be making jokes ’til the day I die. So, if you’re reading this and are looking to fill up your next comedy project/booking an event, please DM me. I promise I didn’t mean you when I was talking about the people who “fucking suck”.

Chris Middleton considers himself a writer and comedian based out of Toronto. He’s an alumnus of The Second City’s House Co, and was a writer for This Hour Has 22 Minutes. Chris’ mom wishes he were more like her favourite comedian, Justin Timberlake. www.actuallychris.ca

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