The Underground Comedy Club literally is underground, in a restaurant/bar below street level. Figuratively, in its infancy, it unfortunately does not yet operate outside the current comedy club establishment, which based upon my recent experiences, too often relies upon vulgarity, sexual misadventures, and repetitive, I repeat, repetitive, storytelling that fails to overcome the contradiction of the underlying propositions that personal humor, as targeted by those whose imaginations don’t travel beyond their own daily routine, is found in situations that the audience can in some way relate to and, yet, that the audience has not heard in the same way before, so as to provide an element of surprise.

I won’t mention the names of the comedians I’ve seen at the club because stand-up comedy is hard and they deserve the opportunity to falter at a nascent venue like this. But I have no sympathy for the self-aggrandizing emcee, who hasn’t even made me smile, and who has committed the cardinal sin of suggesting that the audience doesn’t get his jokes, when that’s not, I would suggest, why they’re not laughing. Despite him, my excursions have been somewhat worthwhile thanks to the all-you-can-eat pizza.

Winning over audience members is tough under any circumstances, so, to the next group of performers I might see at the club, unless you’re Don Rickles, keep your attacks on the audience good-natured and gentle. And it’s okay to try to push the edge of the envelope if you’re George Carlin telling us what seven words you can’t say on tv, but swearing for swearing’s sake isn’t clever or funny, just boring, and jokes about Nazis don’t work unless you’re Mel Brooks.