Last January, I got into a fight with Andrew Dice Clay at a stand-up comedy club in Naples, Florida. The details of the altercation are unimportant but at one point, Andrew ludicrously threatened me with violence. “I’m gonna show you who I really am,” he told me in his Welcome Back, Kotter Brooklynese. I was like, “I know who you are. You used to be a popular comedian.”
Andrew was booked to do the early show, me the late. Although I was never a fan, I decided to arrive at the club early to watch the second half of his set thinking that maybe I’d gotten him all wrong and that the bullying d---head he played on stage was just an act. Turns out, no, he really is a bullying d---head. Worse, his act sucked. It was unfocused, unfunny, and ended with him performing the same profane “Nursery Rhymes” bit he’s been doing for over 30 years.
Lest you think I’m just being a petty bitch—which I definitely am—I’m doing so in service of a larger point. There’s another bullying d---head out there repeating the same schtick he’s been doing for years and years. Like Clay, a lot of people think he’s a misogynistic pr--k. Like Clay, he wears the same stupid costume he’s had decades. Like Clay, his act has grown stale and his crowd sizes depleted. And, like Clay, he seems angry as hell about it.
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I haven’t watched a live Trump rally in years, so when I tuned into his Bozeman, Montana, appearance last Monday, I was surprised to realize that Trump is, essentially, just another road comic trotting out all his tired bits from yesteryear to increasingly little effect.
Jerry Seinfeld once said in the documentary, Comedian, that even if you’re famous, the audience will only give you a few minutes grace before they turn on you if you’re not funny. It’s a film Donald Trump would do well to study.
“Hello, Montana,” he said to rapturous cheers as he strode onto stage. He opened with a little local humor: “I’ve been all over your state… Everything’s two hours. When are we going to be there? Two hours, sir. Two hours.”
As an observation, it’s mundane. As a joke, it’s non-existent. But the audience loves him and they eat it up. They love him as he makes fun of Senator John Tester’s stomach and “Crazy Kamala,” but within ten minutes or so, their enthusiasm is starting to flag.
Despite the fact that he’s no longer running against Joe Biden, Trump can’t help but poll the audience about which nickname for the President they prefer: “Sleepy Joe” or “Crooked Joe”? It’s the equivalent of a comedian doing a Michael Jackson joke; what may have once been edgy is now outdated and irrelevant.
Within twenty minutes, the audience is looking around as Trump describes his debate with Biden. Half an hour in, he’s defending himself and JD Vance against charges of being weird. “We’re not weird. We’re very solid people,” and even the hand-picked crowd behind him is starting to check their phones.
Let me tell you something—if a headliner can’t keep an audience engaged for half an hour, something’s wrong with their act. And something is very wrong with Trump’s act, which appeals to the same mooks and lunkheads as Andrew Dice Clay. Like Clay, Trump has now become the character he once portrayed. The self-proclaimed King of New York has become little more than a bloviating huckster desperately trying to recapture faded glory. On a stand-up, it’s sad. On a former President of the United States, it’s pathetic.
Republican presidential candidate and former U.S. President Donald Trump speaks during a campaign rally at the Forum River Center in Rome, Georgia, U.S. March 9, 2024.
/Alyssa Pointer/File Photo/ReutersI always thought the comparisons between Trump and stand-up comedians were insulting—to comedians. A comedian works at their craft, honing jokes, cutting fat, and trying to create a coherent and satisfying hour of material that entertains the audience and, at times, might even make them think. Trump has none of the discipline, none of the thoughtfulness, none of the material.
We have a word for comics like that—hacks. Andrew Dice Clay is now a hack. So, increasingly, is Donald Trump.
Everything about his act has grown stale: the lies, the feeble insults, the meandering riffs that don’t lead to a punchline, the fidgety audience leaving early to save an extra hour on the babysitter. Compare that to the Harris/Walz show, which feels fresh and fun. The act is tight. The jokes are relevant. The crowd eats it up and leaves the show on a high. Now that Taylor Swift has concluded her U.S. tour, Harris/Walz is the hottest ticket in the country.
Politics isn’t showbiz, but campaigning is. A candidate has to capture an audience, hold them, and inspire them. Humor is just one way of doing that. The journalist Harold Ross once said, “If you can’t be funny, be interesting.” Donald Trump has never been funny and is, increasingly, uninteresting. Americans will put up with a lot, but one thing they cannot stand is being bored. In my opinion, Trump doesn’t even rise to the level of being weird. He’s worse. He’s boring. He’s a hack.
