My grandmother was the reason I got into comedy.
Wait—am I talking in first person now? Huh. Anyway…
Grandma always wanted to be a comedian. But grandpa wanted her to do housework, like the dishes, laundry, and occasionally getting beaten to serve dinner on time. So she gave up her dreams. But when that old fossil finally kicked the bucket, she decided it was her time to shine.
Small problem: she was already ancient. I'm talking about jelly knees and the walking speed of Windows XP. Oh, and no teeth. I begged her to wear dentures, but she refused—said it would ruin her natural beauty. At that point, her "natural beauty" was 99% wrinkles and 1% sore back.
Still, dentureless and determined, she set out to become a comedian.
I adored her. She could make anything funny—funerals, fire drills, even her own hip replacement. She even named me Racis T. She thought it sounded rebellious and edgy. I was too young to understand the implications. Later, I'd learn that edgy names age about as well as milk in the sun.
But to me, she was the GOAT of comedy. I believed she'd go viral and hit her big break.
I was five when Grandpa died. The very next day, Grandma hit the stage. That's right—she gave Grandpa a whole 24 hours of mourning. Actually, not even that. I think she cried during the funeral because someone stepped on her foot.
I was there at her first show. She walked on stage… and boom—people exploded with laughter.
She hadn't even opened her mouth yet.
Turns out, toothless granny with a hunchback was comedy gold.
She didn't need punchlines. She was the punchline.
After that, bookings came flying in. Her shows were packed. All she had to do was walk on stage, smile like a deflated balloon, and flap her gums.
One night, an audience member yelled, "Granny! How do you eat?"
Then my granny replied, "Flap, flap, flap." with her mouth flopping up and down.
The crowd lost their minds. Even I laughed. I think she was trying to say something profound, but "flap-flap" became her catchphrase. She went viral.
The flap-flap joke was an instant hit, which wasn't a joke at all, and my grandma became famous around the comedians. She got some money as well but she spent it all on my education.
Her career was just starting to bloom. Soon, she was known as The Toothless Fairy. A legend.
But then… she disappeared.
Why?
Because Grandma realized something painful: people weren't laughing with her. They were laughing at her. She didn't want to be a walking meme. She wanted to be a witty writer, not a gum-flapping mascot.
She quit. She said she should've rebelled back when she still had teeth and ankles. Personally, I think she should've just worn those damn dentures.
With her dreams shelved, she passed the torch to me. She saw that I loved comedy too. So, when I started college, she began writing a book—a sacred comedy manual.
She poured her soul into it.
And when I graduated, she handed me… a 10-page pamphlet.
Ten. Pages.
All that wisdom? Ten pages? She spent her final years writing a glorified school worksheet.
Still, I treasured it. I read it every night before bed like it was the Bible of comedy. And before she passed, she made me promise to succeed where she couldn't.
Now, I had no family left. I should've at least gotten a girlfriend, but apparently, my face screamed "emotional baggage with bad Wi-Fi."
They say, "If you can make a girl laugh, you can kiss her."
So I tested that theory. Made a girl laugh. Then kissed her.
She slapped me.
Turns out, the full quote should be: "Only kiss her if she knows you and also wants to be kissed." Also, maybe don't do it just because you fell on your face and she giggled.
Anyway, promise or no promise, I was going to become a comedian. For the fame. For the money. For the… rejection from women.
Most importantly—I wanted to achieve this dream while I still had my teeth.
So, after college, I ditched the "normal" path and went full hustle-mode. Started posting videos of me performing my grandma's jokes online.
They got taken down.
Apparently, her material was considered… uh, "questionable." People weren't just offended. They were traumatized. Her comedy was so dark, it looked like under the bed.
But to me, those were sacred jokes. Grandma's legacy. She taught me how to write comedy—with edge, with pain, with the emotional subtlety of a punch to the gut. I couldn't let her stories die in a recycle bin.
So I stopped posting online and went analog. Live shows. Small clubs. Open mics.
I bombed.
Not metaphorically. Literally. People threw things.
No one liked my jokes. Not because they weren't funny. Okay, partly that. But mostly because of my name.
Racis T. The T stands for Tate by the way.
But people assumed the worst. I wasn't racist. I was just… bad at branding.
Eventually, the clubs gave up on me. I got kicked out, banned, and blacklisted. They handed me my pitiful performance fee and sent me packing.
Then I had a genius idea. A groundbreaking, Nobel Prize-worthy plan: perform for free.
Yes. A comedian who charges nothing? Club owners would worship me. I imagined them kneeling before me, kissing my shoes, crying, "Oh Racis T, our profit prophet!"
I implemented the plan immediately. I got shows again—at clubs, cafés, birthdays, divorces, even one weird funeral-turned-wedding. But I made one tiny mistake…
I forgot that changing the venue doesn't mean you change the audience. These people were the same old emotionless meat statues with better lighting.
No one laughed. Not even once. Actually, that's not true. They did laugh—right after beating me up.
Once, I performed at a birthday party and said, "What's the difference between a birthday party and a funeral?"
Then I revealed the answer : "In funerals, people are actually happy as they have one less mouth to feed now."
Next thing I know? Hospital. IV drip. A nurse named Brenda judging me silently.
Anyway, after that near-death roast, I cooked up another brilliant idea:
Perform only in the most tragic, forgotten clubs. The ones that can't even afford good lighting, let alone a comedian. Clubs where even flies enter and go, "Nah, too dead."
After an extensive search (aka checking Facebook groups for 'Worst Clubs in the City'), I found a promising place:
Biker's Sanctuary.
Yes. That's what it was called.
A club where every patron had a beard, a leather jacket, and probably a criminal record. Their idea of "comedy" was stabbing each other with pool cues.
And you already know what happened after that.
Optimus Prime slayed another enemy.
Right now? I don't even know what I am. A soul? A consciousness? A ghost with commitment issues?
But even in this strange state, I remember. I remember Grandma's dream. Our dream. I don't know what happens next, but if there's an afterlife…
I want to try again.
This time: no hookers.
This time: real love.
This time: a career and a wife—preferably with all her teeth.
Yeah. That'd be nice.
A smooth life.
A soft pillow.
A warm heart.
…If there's really an afterlife, that is.
Hmm?
My consciousness is fading…
Will I go to heaven? Hell? Or the weird side of YouTube?
If I can meet the dead, I have one wish—send me where Sophia Leone is. She died recently, right? I mean… I am asking for a friend, of course.
The next second… blank.
Then—softness.
My face was pressed against something pillowy.
My mouth was sucking on something.
Wait—was my wish granted??
Was that… was that Sophia Leone or—
Ah.. Nevermind, I got reborn.
One of my wishes came true, at least.
I am in another world.