Last night at dinner, I told my mom and sister an Andrew Schulz joke that I love.

In his comedy special Infamous, Schulz has a bit about how he believes, based on the evidence in the Leaving Neverland documentary, that Michael Jackson did in fact abuse those little boys—however, that didn’t stop him from listening to Michael Jackson’s music. The punchline is that he wishes he could continue to go through life just listening to the “King of Pop” instead of the “King of Poppin’ Cherries” without it weighing on his conscience. Then, he starts to sing one of MJ’s hit songs, “Do You Remember”—but immediately cuts himself off—“NO, I don’t!”

I cackle every time I hear this joke.

But my sister stared at me blankly. “That doesn’t even make any sense,” she said.

“What is ‘popping cherries’?” my mom asked.

I glanced between the two of them in utter disbelief.

My sister continued: “He didn’t have sex with them, he touched them, so there wasn’t even ‘popping cherries.’ Like, it’s not even accurate.”

And then my mom again: “Oh, does ‘popping cherries’ mean having sex? I just can’t imagine how anybody could joke about something so horrible…”

I sat in that stupid booth in the Cheesecake Factory, my mouth hanging open, and completely speechless. I looked between the two women that raised me, my mother and my older sister, both of whom I love and respect, and both of whom have influenced so much of my life—and I wondered how we could be related.

Then my sister kept talking:

“… Like, it’s not even clever. Like, in The Office, they actually write smart, clever stuff.”

And I snapped. “Like what?”

“What?”

“Name one. Just name one clever joke from The Office.”

“I mean, I can’t, it’s just… Like, when they were doing CPR training, that was so funny.”

Now, don’t get me wrong: I love The Office. I’m a huge fan. I can quote that show better than my sister can. But the point that I made to her is that the art of writing for sitcom television is very different than the art of writing standup comedy; developing quirky characters and setting up funny interactions is a completely different narrative form than structuring, timing, and crafting a cohesive joke—or an hour-long comedy monologue, for that matter. While there are plenty of great jokes (setups and punchlines) in sitcoms like The Office, my sister can’t recall an actual joke from that episode—what she remembers are funny things happening. Like Dwight wearing the dummy’s plastic skin face. That’s very, very funny. But, not a joke.

I analytically described to my sister that the “King of Pop” joke is clever because of the relationship that Schulz built between the items “the king of pop music” and “popping cherries.” These are two wildly unrelated things, but Schulz found one commonality that linked them: Michael Jackson. In addition to the humorous alliteration, the wordplay on “pop” is a literary tool that sparks delight and surprise because it has a double meaning; pop music, and popping cherries, with the latter referencing sexual relations.

As for the criticism on the “accuracy” of the joke, I explained to her that there’s an element to comedy (and storytelling in general) where the participants concede to a certain suspension of disbelief; meaning that the premises, punchlines, or points shouldn’t necessarily be taken so literally. The comedic relationship built between the items, as well as any other narrative elements that might be used (alliteration, exaggeration, surprise, misdirection, word-play, or observation, for example) take priority in the experience rather than its reality or accuracy.

Then I turned to my mom. She is genuinely an angel on earth, the most wholesome and gentle woman, and truly incapable of laughing at anything remotely “horrible,” or “evil,” or at any misfortune that befalls another. I explained to her that making jokes about something traumatic is often an individual or societal way of overcoming pain and fear related to an incident, and it can actually be viewed as a form of healing and empowerment. I asked her to imagine there being two different elements to a joke of this nature: there’s Item 1, the horrible situation, and there’s Item 2, the funny element. They’re not actually laughing at the horrible situation, or belittling the depravity of it; rather, they are utilizing it as an unsuspecting vehicle to present Item 2, the punchline, the element we are actually laughing at. The depravity of Item 1 is actually what makes Item 2 funnier because, by nature of the precedent being horrible, the audience is unsuspecting of the resulting humor. 

This, I argued, is the job of the comedian: to “find the funny,” even in things that seem completely unsalvageable or irredeemable. Additionally, they are attempting to bridle the heightened emotional tension that is already present in the sensitive topic and, with careful crafting, redirect it into a burst of laughter and released tension. For example: children being molested is not funny. However, the alliteration of the king of pop music popping cherries, the double-meaning of the word “pop,” and the observation of Schulz’s own hypocrisy and wrestling with our principles and morals as a society in choosing to continue to listen to the music of a pedophile—is ironic, tense, uncomfortable, observational, provoking, and yes, because of the way it was crafted, hilarious. I concede that there is definitely a bigger conversation to be had in our society, and even in Christianity, around comedy, humor, and how to love and respect our neighbors. But comedy as an art form is so—

The waiter at the Cheesecake Factory dropped off our check. Others were starting to flip the chairs up on the table, and I noticed someone mopping. My sister yawned, and my mom patiently pulled out her wallet.

Sophia Medawar

Sophia (‘19) double-majored in theatre and religion and insists that her life is a “storybook.” She lives in an apartment above a flower shop in downtown Chicago and has multiple roles working across the arts in comedy, music, theatre, film, and visual art—though her greatest passion is writing. Her work includes stage plays, screenplays, and articles, focusing mostly on cultural trends, comedy, reviews, and religious satire. She loves road trips, visiting her family in Grand Rapids, hunting for the perfect latte, and rescuing plants from the flower shop’s dumpster.