I Am A Comedian (Unfortunately for everyone)

My name is Blorbo Fizz Quibbleton. Yes, that is my real name. No, I don't know what my parents were thinking, but I assume they were either very confident… or very distracted.

Of course I have considered legally changing it to something cooler like ‘Jake Supreme’ or ‘Mad Max’, but my mom said I have to wait until I'm eighteen. Honestly though, that feels like gatekeeping identity. Which is unfair because I've already mentally rebranded.

I'm eleven years old, and I've recently discovered something very important: adults think they are in charge of everything—but really, they are just running life on low battery mode with forty-seven tabs open and one of them is playing music they can't find.

And I know this because I've decided I'm a stand-up comedian now. Which means I tell jokes and receive reactions like: ‘Hmm.’ ‘That's interesting.’ ‘And what did we learn from that?’

Nothing. I learned nothing. I am funny. That's the lesson. Like I'll say something funny, and they'll respond three business days later like, “Oh… that WAS funny!” While I've already moved on, retired, and started a new career as a sandwich.

So anyway, I've decided I'm funny. My mom disagrees, but she also thinks putting vegetables in pasta is ‘Italian cooking’, so I don't fully trust her opinions.

BREAKFAST IS MY OPEN MIC

I tried my first comedy set at breakfast.

I stood on my chair like I was headlining for Netflix and hollered, “Why do adults wake up tired, complain they're tired, and then refuse to go to bed early? That's not a schedule—that's a bad sequel that keeps getting renewed.”

My dad froze mid-bite. Like, fork halfway to his mouth, his eyes slightly narrowed… processing. He looked at me like he was personally attacked… that's what I call a direct hit.

“It's called responsibilities,” he insisted.

“No, dad. It looks like poor decisions with a bedtime.” I snarked.

My sister didn't even look up from her cereal. She just said, “that wasn't funny.”

I raised an eyebrow, “You think ketchup is spicy. Sit this one out.”

She gasped like I just canceled her existence.

SCHOOL IS A TOUGH CROWD

At recess, I climbed onto a bench like it was a stage. Except, it was slightly wobbly, so it felt less like performing and more like I was negotiating with gravity.

I cupped my hands around my mouth and shouted, “why do schools act like recess is a break? There's no break. It's just twenty minutes of organized chaos where everyone pretends they're not getting emotionally targeted.”

A few kids looked over—that's already a win in comedy.

I continued, “Like dodgeball—why is the goal ‘don't get hit'? That's not a sport, we're just assigning random trauma and calling it P.E.”

One kid nodded and said, “facts.”

Then immediately got hit in the face with a ball so hard he spun in a full circle like a slow WIFI loading icon. So I think my material is accurate and also predictive.

My teacher walked over looking like she had already accepted defeat for the day.

She pointed at me and asked, “Blorbo, what are you doing?”

I replied, “educational performance art.”

“Well, perform your way back to the ground,” she barked.

Apparently my comedy career has rules. Tough crowd, man. No appreciation for the arts.

ADULT OBSERVATIONAL COMEDY

I've been working on observational comedy, which is basically just noticing things adults do… and then exposing them publicly. Like the other day, my mom was standing in the kitchen, just staring into the fridge.

So I said, “why do adults open the fridge and just stand there like something new is going to appear? It's the same food. You checked twelve minutes ago.”

She replied, “I'm looking.”

“For what? A surprise sandwich?” I jested.

She closed the fridge, then opened it again. I didn't even say anything that time. I just raised an eyebrow. And then she gave me that look.

“Don't!” She hissed.

“Did you think something changed? Or?” I ridiculed.

She just stared at me. Which is how I knew… I had just lost all future privileges.

TIMING IS MY MAIN ENEMY

The biggest problem with being a kid comedian is timing. Not my timing—my timing is elite. Adults have the worst reaction time. They just don't function at the same speed.

I'll say something funny, right? Perfect delivery, eye contact, confidence—and adults will just stare at me like I just asked them to solve a math problem. No laugh, no smile—just confusion. Like their brain is buffering in real time.

You can literally see it:

…processing…

Then HOURS later, while washing dishes, my dad will suddenly go, “...wait, that was actually funny.”

Sir. The joke has left the building. It is now touring internationally. And the worst part? They expect me to react again.

Like he'll laugh and look at me, waiting for an answer.

“Wasn't that funny?”

No. We've moved on. I'm in a different era now. Keep up. At this point, I don't even tell jokes once. I just wait. Because eventually… they'll laugh. Probably tomorrow. Maybe next week.

Honestly, I might already be famous in the future and they're just catching up.

CROWD WORK

I tried crowd work on my sister—which was my first mistake. Crowd work only works if the crowd has basic respect. My sister isn't here to laugh. She's here to ruin my confidence as a hobby.

I asked, “Alright, be honest. Am I funny?”

“No,” she said immediately.

There wasn't even a pause for thinking. That answer was preloaded.

“Wow. That felt personal.” I stammered.

“It is,” she cackled.

That's when I realized… This isn't crowd work. This is a hostile environment. And I am under attack.

IMPROV WITH DAD

My dad said, “Let's improv. Say whatever comes to your mind.”

Which is a wild thing to say to an eleven year old with opinions, but I'll bite.

“Why do you look for the TV remote like it ran away when it's always in your hand or under you like you're protecting it?”

He laughed. Then immediately checked where the remote was—it was under him. I didn't even say anything. I just stared, made eye contact, and nodded once like a disappointed coach.

He shook his head and said, “Go do something else, Blorbo.”

So I think I won the improv game, and also got unofficially banned from it.

DINNER SET

At dinner, I delivered my best joke. I waited for the perfect moment too. Silence. Everyone eating. Full attention.

“Why do parents say ‘I brought you into this world, I can take you out’? That's not parenting—that's a threat with a backstory.”

There was a pause. My dad immediately started laughing. Like full, can't-talk, had-to-put-his-fork-down laughing.

My mom just stared at me slowly and said, “finish eating your food.”

“So we're ignoring facts now?” I asked her.

No answer. And that's when I knew… I absolutely crushed that set.

ADULT LAUGHTER

I've learned adult laughter is complicated, it's never just laughter.

It's always:

•Laugh + warning

•Laugh + don't repeat that

•Laugh + look at the other parent

•Laugh + consequences

It's like unlocking an achievement and immediately getting punished for it.

FINAL

So yeah… I've learned a lot from being a kid comedian. Mainly that adults will laugh… but they will not like why they're laughing. Because the second they realize the joke is about them? It's over.

Now it’s: ‘Okay, that's enough.’ ‘Don't get smart.’ ‘Go do something productive.’

Which is confusing… because two seconds ago you were laughing like it was the best thing you've ever heard. Now suddenly it's a problem? Pick a side.

But honestly? That's how I know I'm getting good. Because if I can make adults laugh… and call them out… and make them slightly uncomfortable… and get sent away immediately after…

That's not just comedy, that's impact. So yeah… I'm not just a comedian. I'm the reason adults laugh… and then immediately need a minute.