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Whitney Cummings Finds Her People
The comedian’s politics has changed. So has her audience.
It is commonplace among poets and musicians and painters to express a fear of the audience — its ability to corrupt with praise, to transform art into parody — but this is not the case among stand-up comedians, who are given to cast the ticket holder as the arbiter of authenticity itself. You have to learn not to lie.” Cummings is five-foot-ten, a coiled spring of a comedian, a woman who speaks with her expansive hands, her elbows, her pelvis, her shoulders down and back arched as if bearing against waves. Her hair is pulled into a high ponytail; she wears it this way, she says, because stand-up is a sport, specifically the sport of “mutual verbal assault,” in which case it is evident that more people than ever are willing to pay to be verbally assaulted by Whitney Cummings, who tonight will threaten, moments after she goes onstage, to “Luigi” an audience member employed at Apple should the company “put out a new fucking charger.” She was already an A-list comedian pre-pandemic, the force behind network shows like Whitney and 2 Broke Girls and the star of four full-length specials, but recently she has discovered something, unearthed some formula, found a groove.
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