You Can Buy a Mic, But You Can’t Buy the Funny (And You Probably Shouldn’t Trash the Place on Your Way Out Either)

This only represented my appreciation for those that signed the locker. My actions and my continued efforts will prove my appreciation. Thank you

Here’s the thing about comedy: it’s not that hard to get into. You don’t need a license. You don’t need a diploma. You don't even have to be funny! In fact, all you really need is a microphone, a stool, and the overconfidence of someone who once got a laugh at a wedding.

So yeah — technically, anyone can start in comedy. But doing it well? Doing it consistently? Doing it without emotionally wounding a small army of comedians in the process? That’s a little harder.

What you can buy is equipment. You can buy a stage. You can even talk loud enough to make people think you’re in charge. But what you can’t buy — and believe me, some have tried — is funny. You can’t buy timing. And you definitely can’t buy the respect of comics who’ve actually put in the work.

Trust me, I've watched people try to find it on Lazada. No luck.

For the past few years, I’ve been helping build something special. And then — as life goes — things shifted. Some people moved on. Some things got… left behind. And some places? Let’s just say they were returned in slightly worse condition than when I left them.

No need to point fingers. We all process closure differently. Some people write poetry. Some go to therapy. Some take a can of spray paint to a metal locker signed by international headliners and redecorate like it’s a crime of passion.

That’s not slander, by the way. That’s interior design commentary. I write jokes and I try to help others, it helps me in the process.

Here’s what I’ve realized: I’m a fixer. Not in the shady political thriller sense — I just like solving problems. It’s what makes me a decent comic and an exhausted person. I see something broken, and I feel the need to fix it. A bad light setup, a clunky scene, an awkward transition, a venue that’s been metaphorically (and occasionally physically) set on fire — I’m on it.

But if you spend all your time in fix-it mode, eventually you forget to laugh. Everything becomes a problem to solve, and even the wins feel like to-do list items. That’s how you end up being the kind of comic who kills on stage but might not be so fun off it.

Comedy is about pointing out what’s wrong — but if you don’t make room for what’s right, you become bitter. Even if you’re funny, you’re no fun. And that’s a hard way to live.

What makes it worse is watching people manipulate the comics who care — the ones who show up early, stay late, put their heart into it. These are the folks comedy depends on, and they’re often the first to get played, or still getting played. There’s always someone promising the world for “exposure” or trying to fast-track legitimacy by standing next to people who’ve earned theirs.

But here’s the good news: comics know. Real ones always do, real recognize real. We’re trained to sniff out lies. It’s literally our job to observe human behavior and call out the bullshit — gently, publicly, and ideally with a killer callback.

I’m not naming names. I don’t need to. This isn’t that kind of blog — and this definitely isn’t that kind of country.

All I’ll say is this: I’m still here. Still doing the work. Still collaborating with people who care. I’m not trying to reclaim the past. I’m building what’s next — smarter, funnier, and with less spray paint.

Because in comedy, as in life, time always reveals who’s really in it for the right reasons — and who just wanted the spotlight. You don’t need to shout the truth. You just need to keep showing up.

Time always shows who’s authentic, and who cares about more than just themselves.

Stay tuned.– FunwithLex