Public Speaking and Comedy

Got Butterflies in your tummy? It's because your unicorn has an infection.

Speaking or performing comedy in front of an audience can be terrifying.

Next Friday I will share my irreverent remarks from headlining the successful “Before I Die Festival” at the Loft. If you can’t laugh at aging, dying and death…

We’ve heard the cliches. Here are three. Why three? Comedy rule. All good things come in threes:

“Got Butterflies? Make them fly in formation.”

“Be sincere; be brief; be seated.”

“Picture your audience in their underwear.”

I hate cliches. The only time I love cliches is when they are comedy material.

Cliches are ideal vehicles for misdirection. Misdirection is the cornerstone of comedy. That’s a direct quote from Mr. Direction.

Got butterflies? You’re not a speaker or a comedian. You’re a butterfly collector. Get off the stage, slap on a pith helmet and go skip through the woods with a net.

Be sincere; be brief; be seated? No. Let me be brief. Stay seated. And I mean that sincerely.

Picture your audience in their underwear? That works until you realize they’re picturing you in yours and it’s not your jokes they’re laughing at.

During the Jurassic Period I was in a Scottsdale resort to give a chalk talk.

A comedic performance by a quick sketch artist was called a “Chalk Talk” in the vaudeville era, often taking the form of a mock lecture.

Back to Snottsdale. I was killing time waiting to give my talk at a resort when I came upon a vision of depravity so traumatic and horrifying I still have flashbacks. I had stumbled upon a “workshop” for professional motivational speakers and a professional motivational speaker was speaking. The stench of cliches and psychobabble was irresistable. The door to the meeting room was cracked, as were most of the attendees inside, so I slipped into the back row. I had wandered into the lowest depths of Hell. I know Hell. I’ve driven across America with a min-van packed with my kids. I can still hear the nightmarish chant of their coven, their demonic cabal, their satanic tribe of delusion peddlers. “You can do this! Just believe in yourself.”

My response? Learn to fake confidence because no one believes in you.

I know what you’re thinking. “Why didn’t you warn the sleepwalking citizenry that hundreds of high-on-life energized motivational speakers were about to be unleashed on the world?”

Because I had to give a talk to the Door and Hardware Institute conference.

Half of those witless motivational gladhanders now serve in our legislature and the other half serve up free life advice with every snow cone they grind out at carnival midways.

I can agree with two cliches in spite of the fact good comedy comes in threes. Be original. That and “a stitch in time saves nine” which always sounded to me like a tip on how to avoid a surgical malpractice suit.

Do not steal someone else’s original material. Ever. Unless the joke is really good. For years I’ve used a joke my friend Tom Beal made. “Tucson is El Paso with saguaros.” That’s a good one. Worth stealing.

If you do, let your audience know you’re a thieving, derivative weasel with no imagination or shame. Or do the math and blow it off. What are the odds they ever heard Tom made that wry remark?

If you enjoyed a comedian’s comedy special you were enjoying a masterpiece that most likely evolved from a decade or more of writing that was curated, crafted, tested, whittled, tested and whittled again and again until it was lean and perfect. If you think comedy just spontaneously pours out of your favorite comedian’s head enjoy that fantasy.

Keep your comedy personal and original because that’s the funniest stuff because that’s where the pain is and someone else’s pain is always hilarious because it resonates with us.

Your profession is a target rich environment. My career as a newspaperman gave me daily fuel. “Sure the Press makes mistakes. See the headline in yesterday’s paper? ‘TWO KILLED, ONE SERIOUSLY.’ That was embarrassing.”

Even death threats were fuel for snickers. “My kids always made a small fortune off me. Every time I got a car bomb threat I’d give my teenage daughter a buck to start the car.”

Family life? Divorce is a scream. “What a coincidence. We both left each other for another woman. At least mine didn’t look like Clint Eastwood in stilettos.”

Birth of my kids. ”We did Lamaze. During the delivery the doc kept telling me to remind her to keep breathing and to take her mind off the discomfort.”

I told the doc that would be easy because, “I did that during the conception of the child.”

Disease is a hoot. I’ve done comedy about my heart. Knock, knock. Who’s there? Aorta. Aorta start the procedure.

I survived bladder cancer with my notebook in hand. If it didn’t kill me at the very least I was going to get comedy gold out of it. Catheters are a scream. The nurse came at me holding the catheter like she was about to heave a javelin into the wincing eye of a tiny cyclops.

Why repeat canned dad jokes?

First it’s a crime. Telling dad jokes is a human rights violation.

And second, your life is so much funnier and so much more interesting than any one-size-fits-all alleged humor.

Reveal something about yourself. Unlike the forgettable Jerry Seinfeld or Jay Leno who reveal nothing about themselves. Want to be remembered? Follow the path of the great and memorable comedians who dig deep and reveal themselves onstage. Pryor. Maria Bamford. Gaffigan..

I commend to you two comedians who model this approach. Taylor Tomlinson talks about her sex life, her mom’s death, being bipolar and having Christian parents and she is brilliant.

Taylor Tomlinson

If you prefer “clean” comedy Leanne Morgan is a wonderful example of personal comedy storytelling.

Leanne Morgan

What’s the worst that could happen? In the public speaking world we call the worst that could happen “Gigs from Hell”. Backstage we can be competitive with our “Gigs from Hell” stories.”

I had a events planner tell me, “We changed the venue. You’re speaking outside now. Your group will be seated across from you on the other side of pool and we’re sorry it’s a windy day and we can’t turn down the piped in Carlos Nakai music or shut off the waterfalls. Would you like clothespins to hold your easel paper down? Break a leg.”

The worst experience was a western style barbecue with my audience occupying picnic tables in a grove of mesquites at sunset. I recall saying to the head waiter, “A Microphone would be nice. The sun is setting and I’ll be in the dark soon. Could I get lighting? Could you shine a flashlight on me?”

I’d rather deal with a drunk heckler than a endure another gig from Hell.

Hecklers are easy to dispatch when you’re a quick sketch artist. “I’m drawing you naked, jackass.”

I sketch my heckler’s kisser. “And now the eyes, windows of the soul.” I hammer two dots for eyes onto the paper.

I sketch his naked body down to the bottom of my pad leaving his groin a Ken doll blank. Snickers.

Dot, dot for nipples. Laughter. I add a nipple ring the size of a hula hoop. Roars.

My heckler is quiet.

When I sketch his recoiling manhood at the bottom of the paper I pause because I want the entire world to watch as I make a tiny line that’s barely visible. Target annihilated.

That tiresome and coarse genre of “humor” is called “Diaper Crowd” humor. And it’s why I rarely do comedy clubs anymore. Cheap laughs. Too easy.

Know who is in your audience. Learn the names, gender, and pronunciation of the names of folks you may share the stage with. At the TCC I went on and on about a great man I was introducing. When an elegant woman took the podium. I dug an exit from the dais through the concrete.

Write speech outlines noting key words that will help you recall entire bits. Be so familiar with the material that you avoid reciting your talk. Create the illusion it’s all improvised on the spot.

Your intro should be humble. Don’t oversell. When I’m introduced as a “hilarious comedian” instead of as a “humorist” the audience is much like my wife, disappointed I’m not Kevin Hart.

Introduced as a “humorist” the audience is surprised how funny I am.

Your open is important; it’s your hook, your common ground. Acknowledge the room and any elephant in the room. Let the audience know you are with them in this moment. “Boy parking was so bad tonight…”

Bring energy and attitude to your talk. It’s contagious.

And lastly, admit mistakes the instant they happen.

“I lost my place. Issue a Silver Alert for my missing brain cell.”

If I do a standup show this spring you’ll be the first to know. Thanks for coming and be sure to tip the wait staff. And drive home carefully