A Comedy of Errors (And Other Bodily Functions) at "HerLarious"

It is said that laughter is the best medicine. If true, then the proprietor of "HerLarious," a comedy club nestled in the labyrinthine of alleys on Nanjing Rd., must be running a pharmaceutical factory in disguise. Though, judging by the pallor of the patrons and the peculiar odor of desperation hanging in the air, it's more likely she's peddling placebos.

I recently ventured into this establishment, purely for journalistic purposes, of course – and to see if my own wit, which has been known to fell lesser men, could survive the crucible. The evening's festivities were presided over by a woman, the manager, who, I'm told, is Chinese. Her claim to fame, aside from her questionable taste in comedic talent, is her constant companion: an African baby. Yes, a baby. She carries this child around like a particularly lumpy handbag, swaying him with an arm that suggests either incredible strength or a complete disregard for the laws of gravity. She readily admits this tiny human is the product of her "many escapades with swarthy gentlemen from the savanna." The poor tot, seemingly resigned to his fate as a prop in this theatrical farce, looked as though he was considering a career in professional napping to escape the indignity. I half expected him to hold up a sign reading, "Will work for a helmet." Frankly, if his mother's jokes don't improve, he may have to go to work to extract a long-lacking guffaw from the audience.

And what an audience it was! Mostly comprised of Chinese women, whose grasp of the English language seemed to be on par with my understanding of quantum physics, which is to say, tenuous at best. You could probably sing the alphabet backwards, standing on your head, and elicit a similar, vacant stare. The entire affair gave new meaning to the phrase "lost in translation." One can't be sure if anything being said is understood at all.

Then there were the comics. A veritable train of them! Nerdy, disillusioned foreigners, many sporting what appeared to be unscheduled damp spots on the front of their trousers – a fashion statement, perhaps, or merely a testament to the club's anemic plumbing. They were followed by a parade of mostly homely female Chinese comic hopefuls. Now, these ladies had a unique approach to stand-up. It was as if they heard a cymbal crash after every single one of their lines. They'd deliver a joke, wait for the imaginary drum roll, and then, finding only the sound of crickets, quickly pivot with an "anyway" or, more desperately, "Oh, I thought that would make you laugh!" The absolute zenith of their self-flagellation, however, was the plaintive wail: "Why aren’t you laughing?!" A question I often ask myself when my dates suggest we 'Netflix and chill,' and then actually put on a documentary about the mating habits of squirrels. Their comedic repertoire, for the most part, bounced between toilet humor and even more tired comparisons of Western versus Chinese romantic relations. Originality had taken the night off.

As my five minutes of infamy approached, I must confess to a certain amount of hesitancy. To make matters worse, a self-appointed ringmaster – a black American man with the lung capacity of a foghorn – decided to heckle each person unlucky enough to sign up for this affair. This Muhammad Ali impersonator, clearly a favorite of the woman-and-baby duo, was given free rein to lob his noisy Ebonics throughout the evening. It was like trying to perform a delicate surgical procedure in the middle of a wrestling match.

Nevertheless, I mottled through. I decided to recount a story I once heard from the late, great Gilbert Gottfried. It was the tale of two missionaries, lost in a jungle, spreading the good word – or trying to, anyway. They were swiftly imprisoned by tribesmen in an oversized wooden birdcage. The tribesmen, surprisingly fluent in English, offered them a choice: "Death or Oogu?" The missionaries, stunned by both the impeccable English and the inscrutable alternative, eventually had one of them declare, "Oogu!"

Well, they swiftly yanked that man of God out and proceeded to violate him in every conceivable orifice. For three days, the onslaught continued until the poor priest was plum tuckered out. Returned to the cage, his brother, seeing his state, immediately shouted, "DEATH! FOR GOD'S SAKE, DEATH!" To which the bushman replied, with a smirk I can only imagine, "Very well. Death you shall have, but first… Oogu!"

The recount of this story left my audience in much the same state as those missionaries must have been. You could have heard a pin drop. Even the loud-mouthed African interloper in the back had finally shut his trap. The majority of the audience, consisting of those aforementioned ladies, could not have looked any more stunned if I'd performed "Oogu" right then and there on the pretentious red curtains behind me, which, by the way, bore the "HerLarious" slogan above my head. An ironic touch, I thought.

But, like a moth to a flickering, questionable flame, I'm going back again today. One should know that open mics are a mixed bag of nuts, and one must always be prepared for the absurd. Perhaps the baby will have learned to tap dance. One can only hope.