funny Business

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I trIed standup comedy and lIved to tell about It. By Amy Bugg

Iprobably stood on stage for at least 30 seconds, staring out into the blinding spotlights and quietly repeating a curse word Canadian Living isn’t likely to print. I was terrifed. Nothing I was going to say would be funny; my jokes were bound to be received with blank stares and awkward silence. I would be lucky to get one chuckle. Fortunately, the outcome was the opposite of what I’d imagined.

I can’t recall exactly how many laughs I got in my fve minutes on stage, but I do know it was more than one. Afer the show, my friends—and even some comedians—told me how much they enjoyed my set. I was fnally able to let a new emotion set in: pride.

When I was growing up, I never attempted to make people laugh. Tey just did. I didn’t even realize I was doing it until my junior high graduation. My homeroom teacher gave a little speech about each kid in the class. She spoke about blossoming athletes and aspiring musicians, until she came to me. “I don’t know where Amy will end up,” she said, “but she makes us all laugh.” Tat’s when I realized I didn’t need to be loud and boisterous; I could be shy and uncomfortable and still be funny. Perhaps comedy was something I could explore.

Afer high school, my dad strongly discouraged me from pursuing comedy as a career. “Amy, your disposition is perfectly matched to become an accountant,” he said. “You should become an accountant. In fact, I insist.” So of I went to the University of Saskatchewan to pursue my father’s dream of me becoming an accountant, an occupation not exactly known for its hilarity. It wasn’t until my third year of university that I caught my frst standup comedy night at a local club.

But afer I moved to Calgary, my friend Emily and I began attending Comedy Monday Night on a regular basis; there was at least one frst-timer performing at every show. Seeing all these novices get on stage made trying standup seem more feasible. Some did well, some bombed; but overall, the support from the audience was palpable. I realized people would probably support me in the same way if I tried. I mentioned to Emily that I was considering giving it a go, and she gave me the frm push I needed.

Five and a half months later, I revisited some material I’d written to distract myself while working as an auditor the previous summer. I’d spent hours crafing jokes about my androgynous childhood haircut and my vagina’s inner monologue. While I was anxiously trying to hone that material, Emily said, “If you get one laugh, you’re doing better than most of the frsttimers we’ve seen.” I clung to those words of wisdom. I only needed two good jokes to exceed everyone’s expectations.

When the big night finally arrived, I sat in silence by myself, trying to remember the fve-minute set. Somehow, I had totally forgotten everything I wrote. Te fear was mounting and my nerves were beginning to show. Te last thing I remember from before my set was approaching the MC and asking, “Is there any way to lower everyone’s expectations?” Te MC laughed and walked directly to the mike to introduce me.

Now I perform at open mikes twice a month. I can’t imagine not doing it. Standup has made me happier. I wish I had tried it sooner. I’m still an accountant during the day, but I have dreams of escaping spreadsheets and becoming a professional comedy writer.

People frequently ask me how I would describe my comedy; I would say I’m quiet, silly and a little blue—the opposite of my father’s comic ideal, Bob Hope, master of the wisecrack. As for my dad, he still insists that “Bob Hope would have been an accountant… if he had a better dad.”