The Truth in Comedy... Pretend All You Want — The Mic Still Knows

I grew up in a cult. Not a metaphorical one — a real, rule‑obsessed, reality‑bending cult. Truth wasn’t just discouraged; it was dangerous. Questioning things was betrayal. When I finally broke free in my early 20's, I realized my entire life had been built on a lie. Since then, I’ve been chasing the truth like it’s oxygen.

But even after all that, I still lie. Everyone does. It’s part of being human. We lie to protect ourselves, to look stronger, to seem happier, to make life feel more manageable. But now, when I catch myself doing it, I try to stop and ask why. Because every time I see it — in myself or in others — I see how, at best it stunts growth, at worst it hurts others.

Bangkok Comedy’s Relationship With the Truth

If you want to see human nature in real time, hang out in the Bangkok comedy scene. You’ll see every version of the truth being bent, polished, or stretched until it looks good on a poster.

You see it when people pretend they’re more successful than they are. When they cozy up to people they don’t respect for opportunities they don’t deserve.

When they justify working with people they know are toxic, just because they think it’ll help them get ahead.

And maybe it does… here in Bangkok.

But you can’t lie your way to self‑respect. And you definitely can’t lie your way to being funny. Comedy — real comedy — has a way of punishing inauthenticity. You might get away with it for a while, but eventually the mic finds you out.

Audiences feel it. Real comics know it. And deep down, you know it.

In a small scene like Bangkok’s, the truth rarely surfaces. Maybe it’s because the whole place is built on transience — revolving doors of tourists, expats, and wannabe comics who can finally get some stage-time. Maybe it’s because the people who got here first were delusional narcissists who laid the foundation with a thick layer of bullshit and called it legacy. I don’t know. But somehow, lies age like wine here — if you stick around long enough and repeat them confidently, they get bottled, corked, and passed off as vintage.

You don’t need to be funny, just familiar. You don’t need integrity, just confidence. The audience won’t call you out, because they’re gone next week. The comics won’t call you out, because they might need a spot. And the scene? Well, the scene was never built on truth to begin with — just ego, opportunity, and a thick coat of plausible deniability.

What I’ve Learned From Lying (and Unlearning It)

When I catch myself lying now, it’s rarely about the big things. It’s about subtle things — exaggerations, omissions, small distortions of who I am or what I’ve done. But every time I notice it, I feel that old familiarity: the comfort of the cult, where pretending was survival. And I stop myself. Because I don’t want to live in that world again — a world where image matters more than integrity.

Lying is easy.

It’s quick.

It’s tempting.

But truth lasts longer. And in comedy, truth is the only real currency. You can fake confidence. You can fake charm. But you can’t fake real.

The Punchline

I’m still a liar. But now I’m a liar who knows when I’m lying. And that’s progress.

The goal isn’t perfection — it’s awareness. It’s catching the lie, learning from it, and finding a way to replace it with something honest. Because growth only happens when you stop rehearsing your defenses and start owning your truth.

That’s the real secret to comedy — and to a successful comedy scene in Bangkok: tell the truth, even when it costs you. Because eventually, the audience — and the universe — will always spot the act.

— FunwithLex