The Comedy Clinic

THE COMEDY CLINIC

Motto: “Because laughter is the best medicine, really!”

The Comedy Clinic was not a clinic, which caused confusion daily. Its neon sign blinked inconsistently—“THE COMEDY CLI—IC”—so it wasn’t uncommon for people to stumble in expecting a flu shot and leave with a drink, a blistering roast, and a vague sense of betrayal.

Nestled between a pawn shop and a psychic who only spoke in limericks, The Comedy Clinic was the city’s only bar where stand-up comedy was mandatory and sobriety optional. The owner, one Dr. Chuckles—real name Marvin Gleebstein—had once been a podiatrist until he realized he hated feet and loved fart jokes.

Dr. Chuckles, a man with an Einstein-sized mustache and a wardrobe that screamed "Vegas lounge act with a side gig in children’s parties," stood by the bar with a clipboard. It was Open Mic Night, which at the Comedy Clinic meant chaos, confusion, and occasionally, comedy.

Tonight’s lineup included:

1. A former tax accountant with a PowerPoint presentation titled “Deductions I’ve Regretted.”

2. A magician who refused to do any magic but insisted he was doing magic.

3. A ventriloquist whose dummy had recently filed for independence.

4. A Shakespearean actor trying out stand-up as “Sir Laughs-a-Lot.”

5. A woman who only did impressions of other comedians doing impressions.

It was going to be a long night.

Act 1: Paging Dr. Chuckles

“Doctor Chuckles to the main stage,” the announcer boomed, though the announcer was just Marvin’s cousin Gary with a karaoke mic and chronic sinus congestion.

Dr. Chuckles strutted onto the stage with all the confidence of a man who had once performed for a retirement home and was hit with a Jell-O cup.

“Welcome to The Comedy Clinic!” he shouted.

Half the audience clapped. The other half blinked, unsure if they’d been tricked into group therapy.

“Here, we treat your depression with jokes, your anxiety with punchlines, and your heartbreak with tequila! Side effects may include snorting, crying from laughter, and existential dread—usually all at once.”

The crowd laughed.

Except for Table Nine, a group of five friends who’d clearly thought they were at a real clinic and were now too polite to leave.

“We’re gonna start strong tonight! Our first comic is Carl ‘The Spreadsheet’ Daniels!”

A man in a beige button-down stepped up with a laptop. He was the human version of decaf.

Act 2: Carl the Spreadsheet Guy

“Hi. I’m Carl,” he said flatly. “I used to be a CPA, but now I tell jokes about depreciation.”

Silence.

He clicked his remote. Behind him, a graph labeled “Laughter vs. Itemized Deductions” appeared.

“Here we see that when you deduct your cat as a dependent, people laugh. But the IRS doesn’t.”

A few polite titters.

Carl clicked again.

“Here’s a pie chart of things I regret deducting. As you can see, the largest slice is my dignity.”

That got a genuine laugh. Carl smiled faintly. A woman in the front shouted, “Do the one about the car!”

Carl clicked again.

“This is my car. I tried to write it off as a business expense because I once drove it to a meeting with my therapist. He said my real problem was trying to find love in a Costco.”

The crowd erupted.

Carl walked off to mild applause, which for him was the equivalent of a standing ovation and a parade.

Act 3: The Magic of Inaction

“Next up: Presto the Ambiguous!”

Presto walked onstage wearing a cape and a monocle, looking like Sherlock Holmes if he’d gone through a phase.

“I shall now perform a magic trick you cannot see,” he declared. “Behold—your socks… are now... still on your feet!”

Silence.

“That’s not magic,” someone yelled.

“Ah, but you expected magic. And expectation is an illusion.”

He pulled out a deck of cards. “Pick a card.”

No one moved.

“Exactly! You’ve all refused to play my game. Which means… you win. And poof! No trick needed.”

Someone booed.

Presto bowed deeply and walked off, muttering about postmodernism and “the true art of not performing.”

Act 4: Dummy Drama

“Give it up for: Vinnie and Mr. Taps!”

Vinnie was tall, bald, and sweaty. Mr. Taps was a wooden dummy in a sequined vest.

“Say hi, Taps!”

“No,” the dummy said in a Brooklyn accent. “I’m on strike.”

“What? You can’t strike!”

“You don’t pay me, Vinnie. I deserve respect. I’m more charismatic than you.”

The crowd lost it.

“Taps, we talked about this—”

“No, you talked. I sat in a duffel bag for eight hours. You ever think about my needs? My dreams?”

“You’re a dummy!”

“And you’re a grown man arguing with wood! Who’s the real dummy?”

It turned into a full-blown therapy session, but the audience was dying.

Eventually, Vinnie gave up and left the stage, Mr. Taps under one arm, still yelling “I want a Netflix special!”

Act 5: Shakespeare Gets Sassy

“Now presenting: Sir Laughs-a-Lot!”

A man in full Elizabethan garb strode onstage with a feathered hat and a skull.

“Alas, poor Yorick! He died… because my jokes slay!”

He winked. The crowd groaned.

“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Nay—thou art less sweaty.”

He launched into a routine of Shakespearean puns:

- “Et tu, Brute? More like Et ew, your breath’s rank, dude.”

- “Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou, Romeo? Oh right, probably ghosting Juliet again.”

By the end, someone from Table Nine was laughing so hard he spilled his drink on his insurance paperwork.

Act 6: Impressions of Impressions

“And now… Becca the Echo!”

Becca walked up with a mic and immediately said, “Here’s my impression of Kevin Hart doing an impression of Chris Rock doing an impression of his aunt.”

It was dead on.

She cycled through:

- Jerry Seinfeld pretending to be John Mulaney pretending to be a duck.

- Dave Chappelle imitating Bo Burnham impersonating a GPS system.

- Eddie Murphy channeling Jim Gaffigan doing a cooking tutorial.

By the time she was finished, the entire bar was wheezing.

Even the psychic next door came in, wiped tears, and said, “I didn’t see that coming.”

Act 7: Chaos in the Clinic

Backstage, Dr. Chuckles checked his list and muttered, “We still have fifteen more? Did someone sign up a houseplant again?”

“Actually, that ficus was funny,” Gary said. “Better than the mime last week.”

Just then, the bar door burst open.

A man in scrubs stormed in, out of breath.

“I’ve been paged three times! Where is the emergency?”

Everyone turned. Dr. Chuckles approached him.

“Buddy, this isn’t that kind of clinic.”

“But the sign—!”

“You got tricked by the neon again, huh?”

“…I left mid-appendectomy.”

“Well, since you’re here, wanna try stand-up?”

The surgeon blinked.

Cut to: five minutes later, he was onstage doing tight five minutes on hospital food, medical students, and how patients always lie about how much they really drink.

He crushed.

Act 8: Heckler Therapy

Suddenly, from the back, a heckler rose.

“This place is a joke!”

“Exactly,” said Dr. Chuckles, “you’re catching on!”

The heckler continued, “You call this comedy? I’ve seen better jokes in fortune cookies!”

A hush fell.

The audience gasped.

From the shadows, a figure rose.

Mildred.

Eighty-six years old. Wears orthopedic shoes and drinks Long Island Iced Teas.

Mildred waddled to the heckler and stared him down.

“You don’t like jokes?” she said. “How about this one: A man walks into a bar. And the old lady next to him knocks him out with her cane.”

Before the heckler could speak, she smacked him with a plastic sword from a drink umbrella.

The crowd exploded.

Mildred was crowned Queen of the Comedy Clinic. Literally—they had a crown behind the bar. No one knew why.

Act 9: The Doctor’s Orders

Dr. Chuckles returned to the mic.

“Well folks, that’s our night. Remember: this is The Comedy Clinic. We don’t heal bodies—we heal your funny bone. Which sounds fake, but so does emotional stability!”

Everyone cheered.

Even Table Nine, who now knew they weren’t getting prescriptions but were strangely okay with that.

The psychic whispered, “Your future holds giggles.”

The surgeon booked a weekly slot.

Mr. Taps got an agent.

And Carl? Carl met someone who also loved Excel jokes.

As everyone filtered out, wiping tears and clutching their sides, Dr. Chuckles stood proudly beneath the flickering sign.

“Because laughter is the best medicine,” he whispered. “Really.”

The “C” blinked out again.

Now it read: “The Ome-y Linic.”

“…Close enough.”

THE END