Bite first, whine later.
That was the strategy of an anti-Elon Musk protester who assaulted a comedian on camera at a recent demonstration at a Palo Alto, California, Tesla dealership.
'Left wing protestors have added "biting" to their tactics.'
Hundreds of demonstrators were there to protest Elon Musk and his recent cost-cutting rampage via the Department of Government Efficiency.
Also in attendance — with cameras rolling — were YouTubers and comedians Danny Mullen and Leo Dottavio, the former proudly displaying his support for Musk by wearing a DOGE T-shirt.
The mostly peaceful protest — in which mostly elderly protesters brandished signs with slogans like "Honk for democracy," "Stop Musk's power grab," and, naturally, "Fight fascism" — became violent after a masked protester turned his camera on Mullen and dared him to remove his sunglasses.
A second man, likely in his 30s or 40s, approached Mullen and sarcastically pretended to side with him.
"Hey! Sir, we have tiny d***s, and that's why we support this s***!" the man said, while pointing to Mullen's shirt. The man then hit Mullen with a backhand that struck the comedian in the face and knocked his hat off. "You little bitch!" the protester added.
Mullen retaliated by slapping the man in the face, who then moved toward Mullen. As the two engaged, Mullen eventually threw the man to the ground and controlled him.
Mullen is an experienced jiujitsu practitioner and therefore was able to calmly hold the man against the ground. However, during the scuffle, the protester allegedly bit Mullen in the chest, with Mullen showcasing the wound on his Instagram page.
"Left wing protestors have added 'biting' to their tactics," Mullen wrote alongside the photos.
As the pair grappled, the man claimed he only hit Mullen's hat despite the footage proving otherwise. Other protesters defended the aggressive male by saying Mullen was actually the one who started the exchange.
"I felt like I was in bizarro world," Dottavio told Blaze News. "It's as clear as day that my friend Danny was assaulted by this man first, then defended himself, but people clearly wanted to say the opposite and paint him as the bad guy."
Dottavio added, "It felt like I was around a bunch of lying children."
Protests at Telsa showrooms have recently popped up in cities like New York, Boston, San Francisco, and Tucson, Arizona, in response to Musk's campaign to curb federal spending. According to the Washington Post, protests have been organized at at least 90 Tesla locations as of March 4.
Several middle-aged women continued to verbally assault Mullen even after he let the aggressive protester back to his feet. One woman yelled, "F*** you!" at him, and another told him to "get the f*** out of here."
Mullen could not help but return fire with his own quips, asking why the other protesters were mad at him despite him defending himself and winning the exchange.
"In your America, do losers get credit?" Mullen asked. "That's the problem. That's what DOGE is trying to counteract," he jokingly concluded.
Like Blaze News? Bypass the censors, sign up for our newsletters, and get stories like this direct to your inbox. Sign up here!
As Elon Musk’s political influence grows, so does the mainstream media’s anger and confusion.
Most recently, Musk changed his X account name to “Harry Bōlz.” The move came hours after a Musk-led consortium of investors reportedly bid to take control of OpenAI, and it wasn’t the first time Musk had referred to the strange name.
“Tbh, I’m just hoping a media org that takes itself way too seriously writes a story about Harry Bōlz,” Musk wrote in a tweet on April 10, 2023.
And it seems he’s gotten his wish, as Edward Coristine, a former Neuralink employee and DOGE team member who has apparently been hired as a “senior adviser” to the U.S. State Department has become widely reported on. His internet pseudonym is “Big Balls.”
“Take a deep breath for just a moment and ponder 'Big Balls,'” MSNBC’s Joy Reid said on her show. "And the normalize Indian hate guy also taking control of the Federal Aviation Administration, meaning they control airline safety alongside Sean from 'The Real World: Boston,' our transportation secretary.”
Later, in an interview with Robert Garcia, Reid said, “Have you all essentially made it clear to Mike Johnson that until they allow you all to subpoena 'Big Balls' and the normalize Indian hate guy, at least subpoena them or subpoena Elon Musk, no votes on the budget, no votes, no Democratic votes at all to keep the government open?”
Reid went on to say that “none of this makes any sense.”
Dave Landau of “Normal World” can’t help but joke at Reid’s expense.
“Big Balls,” he mocks, “She looks like one of the balls.”
To enjoy more whimsical satire, topical sketches, and comedic discussions from comedians Dave Landau and 1/4 Black Garrett, subscribe to BlazeTV — the largest multi-platform network of voices who love America, defend the Constitution, and live the American dream.
Comedian Bert Kresicher gave a laugh-out-loud yet emotional speech to NFL quarterback Jameis Winston while watching the Super Bowl in New Orleans, telling the athlete he had cherished the time they spent together.
Kreischer and Winston were hooked up with microphones for NFL on Fox while watching Super Bowl LIX, and their banter turned into a friendship throughout the show. The relationship didn't get off to the best start, however, as Winston wasn't exactly sure how to say Kreischer's name.
"What's up, everybody? We are sitting here in the NOLA, the Big Easy at Super Bowl 59. The biggest event in America. Sitting right next to Bert Kershaw. How do you pronounce your last name, Bert?" Winston asked.
"Bert Kreischer," the comedian responded, already laughing.
"Well, you need no introduction. You know what I'm saying?" Winston hilariously replied.
The two bonded over the course of the game, discussing the team's entrances and reacting to plays by Kansas City Chiefs quarterback Patrick Mahomes. Soon, the pair found common ground over the fact they both have a tendency to become very emotional, with Kreischer then seemingly having a revelation about football in the United States.
"I get in these places, I realize, this is kinda like American church," Kreischer pontificated. "This is our Sunday spent here. It's as beautiful as the ... freaking Grand Canyon. But it's as large in it's the same thing. You know? I love these places."
Winston reciprocated, saying watching the production begin put him in an "emotional state."
"Just seeing how everybody was like ... all the cameras were powered up to watch them come out and take on the field, man. And you said it was like the Roman Coliseum matchup, bro. This is this game is about to be magical, bro."
Winston added, "We were just talking about where you store your treasures, they're also in your heart. ... But somebody gonna leave heartbroken."
'You've been an inspiration.'
Before the game ended, Kreischer opened up to the quarterback even more and hilariously told Winston that the favorite part of the game had been their new relationship.
"My favorite part of the weekend is this right here. I've had so much fun with you, man. It's so fun. You're so, you know, like, genuine people, and then there's genuine, genuine people. You're like the most genuine dude I've ever met."
Kresicher was not done and told the Cleveland Browns player how much he admired his discipline.
"You're not a talk-s***-behind-someone's-back kinda guy. You don't curse. You don't drink. You don't watch porn. You're a good, good, good guy. And I'm so not that person," the comedian added. "You've been an inspiration. You are a great person."
While it is unclear if alcohol fueled Kreischer's emotional rant, the two shared a tequila shot at the end of the game.
Kreischer has been a hit with football fans in recent years, even performing a punt, pass, and kick competition with other comedians in Las Vegas before the Super Bowl in 2024.
Winston, on the other hand, warmed up for the Super Bowl at New Orleans' famous Lafitte's Blacksmith Shop Bar, where he searched for treasures and asked why a woman would bring her 16-month-old baby to a pirate bar.
Like Blaze News? Bypass the censors, sign up for our newsletters, and get stories like this direct to your inbox. Sign up here!
In the last days of throat cancer, Coach Jones, my 11th-grade civics teacher, whispered a joke during class: “The thing about different languages is why does there have to be a word for everything?”
It was met with groans, like most of his jokes. Yet nearly two decades later, I still remember it. Because in all its awkward simplicity, it serves as a template for the failures of clean comedy: flat, low-risk, corny, and, well, lame. But it also reveals some of clean comedy’s most endearing features: upbeat, eager, and wholesome.
'You wouldn’t ask the Beatles why they write clean music. They just write music, and people take away from it what they want.'
Clean comedians like Nate Bargatze, Jerry Seinfeld, Brian Regan, and Jim Gaffigan aren’t just niche acts — they’re among the most prominent performers in comedy, period, transcending the clean-versus-blue debate.
Clean comedy exists on a spectrum, from "Club Clean," which avoids cursing and explicit references, to "TV Clean," with mild innuendo for network audiences. "Church Clean" adheres to strict standards, avoiding obscenity, while "Squeaky Clean" offers G-rated content for children.
Clean comedy flourishes in the faith-based world. Comedians like Brad Stine, dubbed the “Christian George Carlin,” and John Crist, whose playful takes on church life resonate widely, demonstrate how faith and humor intersect. Jeff Allen is a born-again Christian. Jenna Kim Jones, who cut her teeth writing for "The Daily Show," is Mormon. Jim Gaffigan is a devout Catholic.
Even Shane Gillis, the reigning champ of stand-up (and by no means a clean comedian), draws on his Catholic upbringing, while Mike Birbiglia performs clean, cerebral comedy possibly rooted in his own Catholic upbringing. Brian Regan is also a Christian.
Some comedians, like Henry Cho, prefer to avoid labels. “I’m a comedian who’s a Christian,” Cho says, “not a Christian comedian.”
Western civilization decided that the color of filth is blue.
“Blue comedy” denotes ribaldry — crude and bawdy humor, unrestrainedly explicit and profane and often downright shocking. It thrives on taboo, from sexual innuendos to crude punch lines, intended to desecrate sacred or deep-held conventions.
Clean comedy takes a radically different approach, yet the outcome of both routines is often the same. Laughter, obviously. But deeper down, both remind us that comedy is a game of defiance and contradiction.
Penn Jillette says that “the difference between clean and dirty is like the difference between electric and acoustic guitars. Both make music. Both are valid."
Brian Regan has never been fond of his "clean" label. He doesn’t set out to avoid edginess for religious or overly wholesome reasons — he just writes about what genuinely interests him. For Regan, that usually means finding humor in the everyday.
“Clean,” as Regan sees it, is more about tone than intention. He also uses a music metaphor: “You wouldn’t ask the Beatles why they write clean music. They just write music, and people take away from it what they want.”
To dig into this question, I reached out to Stu Burguiere, BlazeTV host of "Stu Does America.” During my six years writing for Glenn Beck, Stu was my boss, and we often talked about comedy.
“Curses are inherently funny words,” Stu explained. “They work as jokes without the hassle of actually writing jokes. But in the wrong hands, they’re cheap and blunt — easy to use and wildly overplayed. In the hands of a master, though, they can be devastatingly effective.”
The real magic, he added, lies in working clean. “If you can master the art of making the right crowd laugh without leaning on profanity, there’s no limit to your powers — or your ability to print money.”
Jim Gaffigan once called profanity emotional manipulation, a shortcut to provoke rather than earn a reaction. Clean humor depends on timing, structure, and universal relatability.
It also ages better. What shocks today might feel stale tomorrow, but humor rooted in shared experiences endures. Even the definition of “clean” evolves. Bob Newhart, a lifelong clean comic, recalled being labeled a “sick comic” in the 1960s by Time magazine for poking fun at “sacred topics.”
Stu’s right, though. Profanity is just funny. This has a biological explanation.
I recently introduced my toddlers to stand-up comedy, a milestone that I had expected to come later. They aren’t exactly ready for Dave Chappelle or Ricky Gervais, so I put on Nate Bargatze’s “Your Friend, Nate Bargatze.”
Bargatze is so mesmerizingly funny that you don’t even notice his material is clean. He places his family at the center of his craft. He never curses. His daughter has introduced each of his Netflix exclusives.
This devotion to family is one of the most important reasons for the success of clean comedy. And at its heart is a consideration for children and an eagerness to include them in comedy, one of life’s most beautiful experiences.
Justin Robert Young zeroed in on this. He’s the perfect balance of professional comedian and political commentator, podcaster, journalist — and possibly the wittiest person I’ve ever met.
“I used to think that my worth in the world of politics was to be the funny, smart guy who used adult analogies,” he told me. “One year I did a survey of my listeners, and I found out that they really wanted me to be the smart, funny guy who stayed clean so they could play the podcast for their kids. The idea of the content being accessible to smart kids with good parents was enough to make me swear off swearing. “
For much of the 20th century, American media operated under strict self-regulation, largely to avoid government censorship. The Production Code, introduced in the 1930s, and later the MPAA rating system set moral boundaries for Hollywood.
As film historian Andrew Patrick Nelson explained in an email, “The industry created its own oversight out of fear that national censorship laws would be enacted in response to public outcry, often driven by religious concerns over immoral content.”
This framework shaped the humor of mid-century stars like Bob Hope, Lucille Ball, and programs like “I Love Lucy” and “The Andy Griffith Show,” which relied on situational humor and wit rather than vulgarity.
While clean comedy dominated mid-century media, the countercultural movements of the 1960s pushed back, leading to the erosion of the Production Code. Artistic freedom flourished, and raunchier comedy gained traction.
In an era when vulgarity is allowed, clean comedy has not just stuck around, it has flourished. Why do audiences still find it refreshing? Which human need does it heal?
Brian Regan, described as “the funniest stand-up alive” by Vanity Fair, points out that “blue comedy is so commonplace, it’s no longer counterculture.”
At the same time, the clean comedy movement is entirely countercultural. Much of its success has been the result of high-paying corporate gigs, where an edgy, Louis C.K.-style performance would trigger HR alarms.
Clean comedy often feels more conservative. Not necessarily because the comedians are — many aren’t — but because its themes align with common gripes and traditional values. Family, marriage, and everyday frustrations are genre fodder.
For decades, however, the cultural elites dismissed clean comedy, favoring the sharp, antiestablishment tone of satire they deemed inherently liberal.
This perspective, articulated in the book “A Conservative Walks into a Bar: The Politics of Political Humor," argued that satire thrives on rebellion and freethinking — qualities, it claimed, that conservatism lacked. Conservatives, according to this view, were humorless defenders of tradition, incapable of the self-awareness or irreverence needed for great comedy.
Even in 2012, when "A Conservative Walks into a Bar" was published, this critique felt outdated. By then, the so-called revolutionary gatekeepers of comedy had become the establishment they once critiqued.
I read the book in graduate school as research for my master’s thesis on the political possibilities of comedic journalism, as practiced by John Oliver, an arrogant maniac cushioned by HBO.
Can dark humor be clean comedy? Probably not. Dark humor requires a deliberate confrontation with subjects that are taboo or disturbing.
At its worst, clean comedy can feel safe to the point of blandness. By avoiding controversy, it risks losing the edge that makes comedy medicinal.
Relatability, a hallmark of clean humor, can become a crutch. Too many jokes about family dinners or traffic jams become filler, lacking the boldness needed to stand out.
Additionally, clean comedy sometimes struggles to address life’s darker complexities. Comedy thrives on truth, and truth is often messy. Sanitizing humor can dilute its impact, leaving audiences with smiles but no deeper catharsis.
But ultimately, its greatest strength is its reach: Everyone is invited. This cohesion produces group cohesion, one of the finest miracles of humor.
In his memoir, “Are We There Yet?” clean comedian Jeff Allen traces his stand-up roots to his parents’ rare moments of laughter while listening to comedy albums. These moments inspired Allen’s commitment to clean, loving humor, eager for redemption and connection.
As Henri Bergson observed, “Laughter needs an echo.”
“I swear, frequently, when doing comedy, but I don’t have to,” Andrew Heaton told me. “When I perform at a country club or on television, I just quit swearing.”
Heaton knows comedy like a beaver knows dam-building; the fundamentals are coded into him.
When I asked him about clean comedy, he heralded the art of restraint: “If your comedy requires swear words or filth, from a practical standpoint you’re cutting yourself off from venues and opportunities.”
Clean comedy thrives on suggestion and nuance. Innuendo replaces the aggression of bawdy humor. The performance is subtle, like Bargatze’s self-deprecation or Gaffigan’s facial expressions.
Norm Macdonald demonstrated this at the Comedy Central roast of Bob Saget. Norm had no problem with vulgarity — he told some of the most offensive and obscene (and hilarious) jokes of our time.
But not at Bob Saget’s roast. Saget’s decades as the on-screen goofball dad on “Full House” and “America’s Funniest Home Videos” typified the extremes of clean comedy. Yet Saget’s stand-up was dark and profane, entirely unclean. And roasts are the domain of bawdiness and comedic depravity.
So Norm delivered intentionally outdated, absurdly clean jokes from an outdated joke book his dad gave him when he started comedy: “Bob has a face like a flower — yeah, cauliflower.”
In a room full of shock humor, Norm’s restraint brought down the house.
This is true rebellion, true comedic genius: Never let the audience predict the punch line or, in Norm’s case, the entire routine.
“Comedy is surprises,” Norm often said, “so if you're intending to make somebody laugh and they don't laugh, that's funny.”
Jerry Seinfeld is the reigning king of clean comedy. In contrast, Larry David, Seinfeld's collaborator and writer, has embraced unrestrained vulgarity in "Curb Your Enthusiasm," proving that his comedic brilliance shines regardless of the approach.
Together, they have created some of the most iconic comedy in American history.
Clean comedy plays with boundaries. The barriers between clean and profane are thinner than we realize.
Comedy exists in the tension between opposites: the sacred and the profane. Clean comedy respects boundaries while secretly reimagining them, transforming solemnity into something approachable through laughter.
This is the fact that can’t be trusted: Comedians will lie if it is funnier than the truth. On an episode of “Riding in Cars with Comedians,” Jerry Seinfeld discussed this: “Funny is funny. Funny has a certain life to it, a certain magic to it. If you only needed truth, people would just read the paper and howl.”
Push an idea far enough into the profane, and it circles back into the sacred. But there’s a halfway point, between the sacred and the obscene. At its finest, clean comedy achieves this balance — dancing between opposing forces, maintaining a structure while celebrating spontaneity. Like a ritual, it holds space for both reverence and irreverence, allowing us to see life’s absurdities in a new light.
The essence of humor is play. It frees us from the weight of existence, allowing us to laugh at ourselves and confront the absurdities of life.
This playful spirit is profoundly democratic. It takes what feels distant or oppressive and makes it relatable, reminding us of our shared humanity.
But like any beautiful and complex human quality, clean humor comes down to one thing: simplicity.
I asked my friend author Nathan Dahlstrom his opinion on all this. In his usual thoughtful manner, he took a day to ponder, then texted me: “Comedy lives in irony, which takes a first-rate intelligence. An old dumb person can be vulgar.”
A few moments later the correction came: “Any old dumb person …”
Comedian Shane Gillis said that legendary coach Nick Saban freaked out on him for jokes he made about the Southeast Conference paying players in order to win championships.
Gillis started rattling cages on December 20, before Notre Dame defeated Indiana 27-17. During the pregame show, Gillis was asked for a prediction.
'I would have never done that if I thought he was serious.'
"Always with Notre Dame. It's like, here's the big game. Let's hopefully win it," he began. "This feels different. Feels like we can win it. You know? There's some parity. Now that everybody can pay their players, Notre Dame has a shot. It's not just the SEC. It's not coach Saban," Gillis laughed.
Saban coached in the SEC with Alabama from 2007-2023. Essentially, Gillis was joking that Saban got a competitive edge by paying players to come to his school well before name, image, and likeness deals were allowed by the NCAA in 2021.
Later that day, Gillis joined Saban, hosts Pat McAfee and Kirk Herbstreit, and others at the "ESPN College Gameday" desk and seemed reluctant to keep up his jokes.
"You called him a cheater earlier," McAfee said to Gillis about Saban.
"I was just joking around. I don't think the SEC paid players, ever," Gillis replied. He then nervously added, "Is this not a fun show? Serious show?"
Gillis then said, "Alabama Jones is very serious," comparing coach Saban's hat to movie character Indiana Jones.
Saban replied, "No. I'm not serious."
"I do believe in integrity. I was trying to run the program that way so players had a better chance to be successful in life. You make more money in the NFL than any other school. 61 players in the league. That was how we cheated. We developed players," Saban clarified, rejecting Gillis' notion.
However, Gillis later stated that Saban's claim that he isn't serious was a bit of acting and that Saban yelled at him when the cameras were off.
Weeks later, Gillis said on his show, "Matt and Shane's Secret Podcast," that hosts McAfee and Herbstreit kept telling him that Saban loved joking around.
"I would have never done that if I thought he was serious," Gillis said about Saban. "They told me he was f***ing around, so I started f***ing with him."
The comedian continued, "Then as soon as we get done, I tell Herbstreit and McAfee. I'm like, 'Bro, he was definitely serious.' And they're like, 'No way he was serious. Go talk to him,'" Gillis revealed.
Gillis said he then went up to Saban and the coach exploded, "You think the SEC dominated because we cheated?! That's bulls**t!"
"He spazzed on me," Gillis laughed.
Gillis' story concluded by saying he had to help Saban off the stage. He noted that Saban "looked around to see if anybody else could help him," but at 73 years old, was forced to accept his offer.
Gillis' favorite team, Notre Dame, has advanced to NCAA national championship game on January 20.
Like Blaze News? Bypass the censors, sign up for our newsletters, and get stories like this direct to your inbox. Sign up here!
Stand-up comedian and writer Whitney Cummings unleashed an uncensored fury of roast jokes live on CNN's New Year's Eve show, shocking host Andy Cohen multiple times.
Along with performing at comedy roasts, Cummings is well known for creating two successful sitcoms, "Whitney" and "2 Broke Girls."
Cummings appeared on the CNN live show just after 10 p.m. ET at Times Square and delivered material new to the airwaves of the cable news network.
While discussing her new "Friends" trivia show, Cummings noted that she had recently been playing to larger theaters of about 3,000 audience members, which she noted was "about the viewership of CNN these days."
Cohen then asked where Cummings would be when midnight struck, to which she answered, "After what I'm about to do, I think I'll probably be in a huddle with a bunch of lawyers or something."
At this point, the comedian let loose and started firing shots in every direction.
Cummings said 2024 needed to be held "accountable" because that is "what white women do now" because they don't understand irony.
"We started being wistful about murderers," Cummings continued. "Remember, this was the year where we were like, 'Were the Menendez brothers so bad? Were we too hard on the Menendez brothers?'"
'The pro-choice party didn't give their voters one ...'
Cummings went on, saying 2024 was a year when the number of "white supremacy groups reached record highs. It got so bad, Ariana Grande became white again."
"2024 totally broke our brains. ... We started watching the WNBA. Was that — what happened?" she asked.
The 2024 election "fried our brains," Cummings then told CNN viewers, before delivering her biggest laughs of the night.
"The Democrats couldn't hold a primary because they were too busy holding a body upright," she said about President Joe Biden.
"Are we still rolling?" she asked. "It was amazing that the pro-choice party didn't give their voters one when it came to the presidential candidate. Kamala was forced on us so hard you'd think she was patented by Pfizer or Moderna."
The comedian then checked with her co-host and said he was giving her a "very scary look" because of her jokes.
'I can't believe you guys are still letting me go.'
Other hits included Cummings calling cryptocurrency "astrology for men" and claiming the government "totally knows what the drones are and aren't telling us." She then dedicated her last minute on the air to listing news stories she thought establishment media will never cover:
"Okay. Ready? Go! Trump's shooter didn't have any silverware in his house. No one thought that was weird. Are we still rolling?"
"Crown prince of Saudi Arabia put money into Disney, so just know there won't be any girl characters in the next 'Cars' movie."
"The wife of so many presidents' chefs died. Weird. Boy Scouts of America, they renamed itself Scouting America. You know who else changed their name? Sean Combs. Just saying."
Cummings was shocked by the end of the broadcast that her feed wasn't cut, calling it "amazing" that CNN wasn't censoring her.
"I can't believe you guys are still letting me go. ... No censorship on CNN. Thank you. Love you guys."
Before the segment ended, CNN's Anderson Cooper — who remained stone-faced for the majority of the jokes — revealed that he didn't understand most of Cummings' pop-culture references.
Like Blaze News? Bypass the censors, sign up for our newsletters, and get stories like this direct to your inbox. Sign up here!
For those of you living under a rock, “Kill Tony” is the world’s biggest live podcast filmed at Joe Rogan’s Comedy Mothership in Austin, Texas. Each episode has well over two million views, making it one of the most viewed shows on YouTube. Each week the eponymous Tony Hinchcliffe, Brian Redban, and two comedian guests judge one-minute open mic slots of amateur and professional comedians picked randomly out of a hat.
Monday’s episode featured BlazeTV’s very own Dave Landau. The "Normal World" host sat next to comedian Sketch and judged the night’s festivities. The best part of the show, as always, comes after the 60-second sets when Hinchcliffe, Redban, Sketch, and Landau ask questions of the contestants and roast them to a crisp.
Here’s the episode:
This week’s episode featured "Kill Tony" regulars William Montgomery, Ari Matti, and Kam Patterson. Oh, and if you’re wondering where you may have heard of Hinchcliffe, he was the one who horrified Democrats with his Puerto Rico joke at Trump’s Madison Square Garden rally back in October. He also absolutely killed it at "The Roast of Tom Brady."
If you loved Landau on "Kill Tony," make sure to watch him every Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday night on BlazeTV’s "Normal World" along with 1/4 Black Garrett. And for even more fun, subscribe to BlazeTV+ and get $20 off your first year with promo code NORMAL.
To enjoy more whimsical satire, topical sketches, and comedic discussions from comedians Dave Landau and 1/4 Black Garrett, subscribe to BlazeTV — the largest multi-platform network of voices who love America, defend the Constitution, and live the American dream.
Ben Bankas pondered fascism as he waited for the Cybertruck.
His enemies on the left have branded his comedy “right-wing fascist” bigotry. They’re not entirely wrong: He is right-wing, and his comedy is bigoted. One of his taglines is “I’m racist.” And there’s his Chinese human-monkey hybrid character:
Bankas radiates a kind of unpredictable energy that either offends or enthralls people, as tonight’s crowd would soon discover.
But does that really make him a fascist?
Bankas slumped in a black hoodie on a bench outside the Hampton Inn where he was staying. November darkness had descended over Tulsa, layering the air with an autumn cold.
He sprang up when the metallic shape of my friend’s Cybertruck glided into view. Everyone in the parking lot froze and gawked. A mother yanked her curious child away from the vehicle, muttering about bad people.
“Definitely a Kamala voter,” said Bankas as he slid into the back seat. “Anything Elon does is automatically fascist to liberals, and she is definitely a liberal.”
He immediately began chattering with my two friends, as the official photographers.
Two days earlier, Donald Trump had won the 2024 presidential election. And now Bankas was in Oklahoma, where every county has been Republican since 2000, so people were even happier than normal. In my little town outside Tulsa, people set off fireworks every night for a week.
Bankas, a Canadian, recently moved to Austin, Texas. He was happy with the Trump win. For one, he has a toddler, a little girl, and a baby boy on the way. Liberal nonsense is personal to a family man.
At 32, he feels a growing presence, the itch of fame and its potential, amplified by the buzz from the release of his fourth special, “Elect This."
Early in his career, he was inspired by Trump's statements about how the cure for depression is just working really hard. He thinks about it any time he wants to rest, like earlier that day, when he took an afternoon nap.
On the drive to the Loony Bin, Bankas asked about Oklahoma, pulling out tidbits of local culture that would reappear in his set. Any anxieties were offset by the shiny, almost alien presence of the Cybertruck gliding through Tulsa’s quiet streets.
The recent change back to Standard Time made everything darker, just a smidge off-kilter. This intensified when we arrived at the Loony Bin, which occupies the gap between a Halloween store and a Cinergy, with a whiff of Red Lobster.
The crowd in the lobby went quiet as we entered, heads turning nervously, maybe stealing a glimpse of tonight’s headliner.
It’s hard to tell, in part because Bankas, as a persona, radiates a kind of unpredictable energy that either offends or enthralls people, as tonight’s crowd would soon discover.
Stout and forward-tilting, Bankas resembles a warthog of a running back, swift but still fond of a bit of cruelty.
In the greenroom, we raided the beer fridge. Soon, the coffee table succumbed to empty Miller Lights and recording equipment. Within ten minutes, we had to start a tab.
The club owner told us his unbelievable origin story, so traumatic that it was confusing. He and Bankas shared a few winky jokes, but moved on to small talk about various comedians. Later, the owner would complain that he had actually lost money on the show. He probably did, but it was hard to tell what he really meant.
My friends were amazed by how normal Bankas was. One of them kept forgetting that the occasion was a proper interview. To be fair, we all did, and by the end of the night, the waitress at the steakhouse said, “Lord have mercy I’m about to earn my money.”
The only usable part of our interview came before Bankas walked out of the greenroom and onto the stage. A few cigarette breaks, some more beers, lots of pregame pacing — he was calibrating the chemical and physiological equation for a feverish set.
This was his locker room, and he was about to step out into the light and compete. That shakes anyone up.
"It's not always about being funny," he confided. "It’s about not screwing up."
His muffled anxiety made him more likeable, a vulnerability that contrasted sharply with his persona as a flamethrower who lives to offend. Defenses down, he talked about his childhood and his mother.
He mentioned how he played the violin as a kid but quit because he thought it was "gay."
He added, “It was just me and a bunch of Chinese kids, and my parents made me wear stupid sweater vests with a turtleneck.”
Freed of his stuffy winter outfits, he joined the hockey team, “because that's where all the cool kids were.”
Oddly enough, the position he played was left wing. But he also briefly played defense and scored a ton of goals, a dynamic that appears in his comedy: Even when he’s receding, he’s thirsty to attack.
After high school, Bankas played hockey at various levels, including single A, which he described as “just a bunch of people who thought they were gonna go to the NHL and be a**holes.”
He still plays sometimes, but not competitively since college.
Then he said, “I used to sell photocopiers.” He repeated the sentence. And again. After a pause: “I lied on my resume.”
Bankas’ opening act was a laid-back and delightful local comedian who also shot video footage at the club. His routine was clean — a lovely performance.
Loony Bin’s room seats 250 people, but that night, only about fifteen showed up. And they were all crowded around the stage.
Bankas peeked out of the greenroom: “Is that everyone?” he asked, then returned to the pre-fight hype session, an iPod in one ear blaring feel-good rap. The warthog was ready to feed.
His entrance song puttered out of the house PA like the horn of a lowrider: “Can’t Take a Joke” by Drake. He paused for a couple of moments, as if he expected the audio quality to improve.
Once onstage, Bankas suppressed an “uh-oh” as the shape of the stage and the angle of the lights and the closeness of the crowd collided with his buzz from beers and Zyns.
His opening joke was more of a hemorrhage than a show-starter: “People have lost some f***ing minds because Trump won! And all the retarded people don't understand what's going on. By all the f***ing dumb women — the female, homosexual part of our society, right? They're all dumb, retarded, gay people and f***ing women that get like 40 abortions before they’re 30 years old.”
It just plopped out like vomit.
He was testing new material, following the recent release of “Elect This.” This should have been a neat moment when the audience gets to witness a comedian honing his craft.
Instead, he got sloppy. He told some great jokes. But the performance lacked flow, and Bankas had no poise.
Usually displaying great timing, with his pauses and sentence fragments, tonight Bankas fumbled through his material, prodding at his iPhone mid-set to scroll through notes. Dead air, marked by the unique silence of people looking down and scrolling.
This kind of set only works if the comedian steps away with an air of humility. “I failed a lot during that set, but I think I made some headway for the next special.”
Instead, Bankas leaned into warthog mode.
About 15 minutes in, he abruptly shifted to the audience. He’s known for his crowd work, especially hecklers. But tonight there was no heckling and hardly any crowd. Just a little gathering of friendlies, eager for a laugh on a Thursday night.
So Bankas torched them.
Over the course of his 90-minute set, the mood in the room soured.
Bankas berated a guy, an engineer. For the rest of the show, he didn’t laugh, and his wife occasionally rubbed his back supportively. I spoke with several audience members who felt the same.
Bankas’ meanness seemed like a crutch, a way to distract the crowd from his fumbling. And this approach was incredibly alienating for someone eager to build a giant audience. But he didn’t seem to notice this.
He believes that he should be part of Joe Rogan’s collective of famous comedians. Maybe he should. He mentioned Rogan a lot throughout the night. He actually closed his set by promising to fill the room next time he comes to Tulsa and to bring Joe Rogan with him.
Bankas’ vituperative style has roots in hockey locker-room vulgarity and rebellion, which emerged when he attended Harbord Collegiate Institute in Toronto, a school known for the actors, comedians, and academics among its alumni.
His mom was a high school teacher. He threw wild parties at his house.
“The black kids loved it,” Bankas told me. “But they'd also trash … not really my house, but they'd run along cars on my street and just trash every car, and the cops would show up. Everybody was trying to sue my mom.”
His friend Jamal was one of the first people to compliment Bankas’ sense of humor, impressed by Bankas’ willingness to shout the N-word.
Bankas’ early career took him from Toronto’s local comedy clubs to his first professional gig in Sudbury, Ontario, where he performed in a sports bar and spent the night at a Super 8 motel.
In the polarized ecosystem of modern stand-up comedy, where subtle hints of conservatism used to be cloaked with disclaimers, Joe Rogan’s endorsement of Donald Trump marked a breakthrough. Comedians like Shane Gillis, Theo Von, and Tony Hinchcliffe also played a crucial role.
From the start, Bankas rejected this neutrality, planting himself squarely in the anti-woke camp without a whiff of hesitation or apology.
Bankas doesn’t just poke fun at liberals; he dismantles the “woke” worldview with a sledgehammer and finds humor in the debris. For him, the self-righteousness of progressive culture is a gold mine of contradictions.
These moralists are obsessed with identifying oppressors and victims yet fail to see their own hypocrisy. They denounce wealth but worship celebrity, preach representation while silencing dissent, and demand inclusivity but shame anyone who doesn’t comply with their dogmas.
Something about the way they squeal and whine amuses Bankas. He likes to see how far he can push the boundaries before they spaz.
Take Bankas’ own brief foray into politics. During a run for mayor of Toronto, he donned a rainbow suit and tie on the campaign trail, promising to “make Toronto fun again.”
He ran on a platform of unapologetic offensiveness, an approach that earned him a few hundred votes and the undivided attention of the Toronto Sun. His candidacy was a joke, but it was a joke with teeth. He had brought his anti-woke philosophy from the stage and unleashed it on the real world.
Back in the greenroom, Bankas was revved up like a prizefighter who just earned a belt. After a quick meet-and-greet, we all piled back into the Cybertruck and set course to B.J.’s Restaurant & Brewhouse. Bankas hadn’t been there, and I had promised steak. Everything fell apart after that, in an uninteresting way.
But the drive there was peaceful. No jokes, no laughter, just a glide, a drift.
“Turn on the Lights” by Future blared from the speakers. Windows open.
We floated through each quiet silhouette of Tulsa at night. Golf balls of cold air rushed into the Cybertruck. The pale yellow fabric of street lights flashed at us like paparazzi.
I think, ultimately, I liked him, but he did make fun of every single person he interacted with all night, including me, repeatedly, with a bravado that I admire.
He wrestles with the offensive-funny ratio I wrote about in my profile of Gavin McInnes.
Offensive comedy is dangerous and beautiful. The more offensive the material, the funnier it has to be, a rule that Lenny Bruce, Richard Pryor, and George Carlin cemented.
But Bankas constantly risks excess that would make his offensive words hackneyed, much like the brilliant Ricky Gervais.
Bankas is an incendiary comedian with a talent for crowd work, but he’s still a few steps away from takeoff. It’s time for his comedy to mature. What his performance lacks most is storytelling. He needs to build scenes, characters, and anecdotes. Not by softening his approach, but by grounding it. A strong offensive joke doesn’t just shock; it spotlights the human condition.
From there, if he’s lucky, Bankas can become a philosopher-king like Chappelle, Burr, Carlin, and their ilk.
Of course, plenty of talented comics never make this move. Stephen Wright, Dimetri Martin, Mitch Hedberg, and Rodney Dangerfield all excel with one-two punch blitzkrieg delivery, but even they weave story into their sets.
In a world where liberal and conservative comedians are waging war over who gets to define what’s funny, Bankas’ commitment to punching in every direction reminds us that culture is athletic, something we have to engage with and perform.
The left wants Bankas to be held accountable; the right wants to claim him as its own, but Bankas resists either label, for the most part.
As a provocateur, his persona thrives in the tension between the audience’s expectations and his own refusal to cater to them. His persona doesn’t want applause; he wants the visceral response, the kind that shakes people out of their comfort zones.
Comedy has always had a communal aspect, a way of determining who belongs. Laughter is the signal; if you laugh along, you’re in on the joke.
So you either laugh with Bankas, signaling your willingness to challenge boundaries, or you sit stone-faced, unamused, excluded from the insiders’ club. This is the essence of Bankas’ style: communal in its alienation, cannonball architecture.
At a glance, this maneuver looks straightforward. But Bankas is pulling a ton of levers. Imitation is fundamental to his process. Mimicry can easily spike the offensive-funny ratio, especially if the impression features any kind of failing or disfigurement — terrain that Bankas uses for joyrides.
Henri Bergson observed that deformity is funny only when it can be convincingly mimicked by someone who is able-bodied. But this decree takes us right back to beauty of comedy’s paradox: The only comedians who can say “retarded” are the ones who can imitate retardation.
Kids have figured out that America's failing liberal institutions have left them surrounded by a harmful cultural and political order that can't justify itself.
www.theblaze.com