On the 29th of December, I went to go see the comedian Steve Hofstetter at the Rhino Room in Adelaide, South Australia.
We went into the city, we got sushi, and we lined up for the show. We ended up in the front row. I was feeling a little miffed about the pricing, as the ticket claimed the show was only going to be an hour. Turns out it was much longer, but I didn't anticipate that I'd be on stage.
I hadn't watched or listened to many of his shows, or his YouTube / TikTok / Social media content, but my wife watches his stuff regularly.
The comedian was supported by Ben Muggleton, an interstate comic from NSW.
I found myself unexpectedly thrust into the spotlight when my wife raised my hand when they asked for a volunteer from the audience.
The premise was a mild roasting session, where the comedians would take a look at me, speculate about my background, current job, dream job, and toss in an odd fact for good measure. It had been forewarned that this would be a roast, and the audience eagerly called me up, drawn by my imposing beard and an astronaut sloth shirt.
As I stood on stage, their comedic gears started turning, attempting to piece together the puzzle of my existence. One boldly speculated that I was the Y2K survivalist, emerging from a bunker after years, still adorned in pre-2000 attire. Another took a whimsical route, suggesting I was Hagrid's half-brother on the human side.
My supposed current job became a subject of debate – an accountant, an anarchist bookstore employee, or perhaps a non-existent job? Dream job guesses ranged from the generic "a job" to the more specific roles of Guitar Hero Tutor/Coach and lead guitarist in a band.
The odd facts about me, as humorously deduced, included the shocking revelation that I had shaved that morning and the misconception that I held a Ph.D. in mathematics but had yet to inform the government.
Amidst the laughter and jokes about failing systems and statistics, I revealed my actual profession as a Data Analyst. When asked about my dream job, I candidly declared, "stand-up comedian." The response was immediate, urging me to prove my comedic aspirations. "Have you ever done an open mic night?" they quizzed. "No," I admitted, eliciting a sarcastic suggestion to "try harder."
Prompted to share something interesting, I disclosed my pursuit of a master's in visual arts. The crowd's reaction, particularly the guy who had guessed Ph.D. in maths, added another layer of humour, highlighting the perceived incongruity between mathematics and visual arts. The original comedian quipped, "Yeah, but boy am I bad at math."
In the midst of the banter, they inquired about my on-stage nerves. I confessed to worrying about falling off the stage, setting the stage for more roasting. Imaginary scenarios unfolded, envisioning me as a stand-up comedian equipped with a seat belt, a backstage tether, or performing the routine as far away from the front edge as possible, all delivered with comedic flair.
I left with a grin on my face, but you can be absolutely certain that I'm not going to return for an open mic session. I'd get kicked off the stage and fall into the crowd, and then probably die of a broken pelvis.
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