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Bill Maher recently sat down with Bryan Johnson, the self-proclaimed king of three-hour erections, and confessed to being a perfectionist.

It’s as if he’s recycling the same jokes he’s been telling since the Clinton administration, only now with the self-righteousness dialed up to 11.

The L.A.-loving comic insisted he never, ever stops striving for excellence. Except, apparently, in his stand-up comedy.

Maher’s latest special, “Is Anyone Else Seeing This?” — ironically advertised an HBO "original" — is a tired rehash of overdone clichés: Kids are awful, Trump is worse, and Republican candidates are married to their guns.

Hardly groundbreaking. In truth, these "jokes" wouldn’t even land at a late-night dive bar open mic.

Maher has spent years coasting on the fumes of relevance, serving up material that’s more dull than daring. Every tired take reeks of self-satisfaction, as if a smug smirk is enough to keep critics at bay.

Well, it’s not.

Comedy thrives on risk and originality, but Maher’s specials have become a slow drip of the same reheated takes. His fans, many of whom have stood by him for decades, deserve better than this tedious slog.

Maher loves to talk about holding people accountable. Perhaps it’s time he took his own advice.

Comedy or karaoke?

Billed as "comedy," “Is Anyone Else Seeing This?” is less a performance and more a monologue from the guy at the end of the bar who doesn’t realize everyone’s stopped listening. It’s lazy, uninspired, and rather revealing.

Maher himself admits he doesn’t perform in comedy clubs — a confession as absurd as a chef proudly declaring he's never set foot in a kitchen.

Unsurprisingly, the lack of practice is painfully obvious. I say this as someone who endured the misfortune of watching the special. I also say this as a regular viewer of "Real Time," someone who wants to enjoy Maher’s stand-up. But the sheer laziness on display shouldn’t be tolerated, let alone rewarded.

For someone who brags about being a crusader against echo chambers, Maher seems oddly blind to his own hypocrisy.

Which brings me back to his avoidance of comedy clubs, the place where comedians earn their stripes. In the clubs, the audience owes you nothing. If you’re not funny, you’ll know it right away. But Maher has avoided that challenge, sticking to the safety of his home crowd. They don’t laugh because he’s funny; they clap because they already agree with him.

It’s comedy on autopilot — the stand-up equivalent of singing karaoke at your own birthday party.

A legacy in decline

The gap between Maher and the broader comedy world was exposed when Roseanne Barr appeared on his podcast, "Club Random," last year and mentioned roastmaster par excellence Tony Hinchcliffe.

Maher, either in a bizarre display of ignorance or outright deceit, claimed he didn’t know who Hinchcliffe was.

That’s not just a blind spot; it’s a black hole. Imagine Brad Pitt squinting at you and asking, “Who’s this Matt Damon fella?” or Mick Jagger struggling to place Robert Plant. Hinchcliffe is one of the biggest names in comedy, a figure you don’t have to like to recognize.

While some readers might not know him (he’s the guy who made the Puerto Rico joke at a Trump rally last year), Maher operates in the exact same world. What’s more, Hinchcliffe hosts "Kill Tony," the most popular live comedy podcast in the world — a show where our own Dave Landau absolutely crushed it just a few weeks ago.

This detachment might explain why Maher’s comedy feels less like stand-up and more like a patronizing PowerPoint presentation. Without the grind of the clubs, without the bruises earned from bombing on stage, Maher’s material has expired. It’s a sad decline for someone who, once upon a time in a very different America, could actually land a joke.

Not all bad

Now, to be clear, Maher excels in other areas. The aforementioned "Real Time" continues to showcase his knack for interviews and his ability to provoke without completely alienating.

Maher’s monologues often land with sharp wit and insight, but that’s likely a testament to his team of writers. The moments of brilliance on his show highlight an obvious truth: Maher is at his best when he’s collaborating, when there’s a structure to temper his self-indulgence.

In stand-up, however, there’s no safety net. Without that collaborative edge, Maher’s comedy devolves into predictable punch lines. It’s as if he’s recycling the same jokes he’s been telling since the Clinton administration, only now with the self-righteousness dialed up to 11.

Watching his specials feels less like comedy and more like being lectured by someone who’s convinced he's the smartest person in the room.

And that’s not funny.

Preaching to the choir

Stand-up comedy demands vulnerability. The best comedians today — Ricky Gervais and Dave Chappelle among them — lay themselves bare, turning their flaws and fears into material that resonates on a deeply human level. More importantly, they’re cerebral without letting their intellect overshadow the one thing that matters most — you know, making people laugh.

George Carlin, one of Maher’s obvious influences, was a master of intellectual comedy. But where Carlin’s wit was razor-sharp, Maher’s often feels blunted by his own self-regard. His comedy doesn’t challenge or surprise; it preaches. And while preaching has its place, it’s not what people come to a comedy special for.

Maher loves to position himself as a contrarian, a truth-teller who doesn’t pander to the crowd. But in his stand-up, he’s doing exactly that. He’s pandering to his base, offering them the comfort of familiarity rather than the challenge of originality. It’s a disservice to his fans and, frankly, to himself.

It’s high time the host of "Real Time" called it quits on his stand-up career.