Wong performed in her stand-up special, “Baby Cobra,” while seven and a half months pregnant. Photograph by Stephanie Gonot for The New Yorker

It is not unusual for a female comedian to talk about her body. It is a little less conventional for her to talk about what comes out of it. Her breast milk, for instance. “Local, organic, free-range, farm-to-mouth milk,” Ali Wong recently told an audience at the Comedy Store in West Hollywood. “Squirting out of my titties,” she continued, circling her index fingers in front of her breasts. “Squirting out of like fifteen holes in each titty. Like a Bellagio fountain.” Or her mucus. “I’m addicted to picking my nose,” she declared later that night, at a second gig. “In a world of red tape and bureaucracy, where it takes forever to buy a house or get a cell-phone plan going, it’s so instant to just stick your finger up there and go for something your own body produces.” Or her afterbirth: “After the baby comes out, you know what else exits? Her house.”

It is possible that female excretion is relatively untouched comedic terrain because the most noteworthy things that women expel are children—and few female standups have any. Performing in clubs is not a career that fosters an ideal work-life balance. “It’s almost impossible to be on the road as a female comic,” Amy Schumer said, “even without having to keep something other than yourself alive.”

Wong, who is thirty-four, filmed her recent Netflix special, “Baby Cobra,” when she was seven and a half months pregnant. “It’s very rare and unusual to see a female comic perform pregnant,” Wong announced from the stage. “Because female comics . . . don’t get pregnant.” (As with many rules, Joan Rivers presents an exception: in the late sixties, she performed on “The Ed Sullivan Show” while pregnant—though she didn’t mention it in her set.) “Once they do get pregnant, they disappear.”

The opposite has been true for Wong. Not long before she taped “Baby Cobra,” tickets for a show that she headlined—at Cobb’s Comedy Club, in her home town, San Francisco—sold so poorly that the proprietors put a block of them up for sale on Groupon. Recently, the club, which has four hundred seats, sold out five of her shows in minutes. She is juggling a job as a writer on ABC’s “Fresh Off the Boat” (the first prime-time series about an Asian-American family on network television since Margaret Cho’s “All-American Girl,” which aired for one season in the nineties) with acting in a new sitcom, also for ABC. Earlier this month, the clothing label Opening Ceremony invited Wong to walk the runway during Fashion Week. She is beloved by mothers, who have started coming up to her on the street. The Web site scarymommy.com announced, “She is your new queen, pregnant ladies.”

“Baby Cobra” is an hour of often extremely filthy material delivered by a tiny, foxy, Vietnamese-Chinese-American wearing a short, tight, black-and-white dress that hugs the balloon of her belly. There is a bracing thrill to watching a woman so manifestly gravid being irreverent and lewd. She describes meeting her husband at a wedding six years earlier like so: “I knew that he was a catch, so I was, like, ‘All right, Ali, you gotta make this dude believe that your body is a secret garden.’ ” She makes a sexy face and thrusts her big belly forward. “When really it’s a public park,” she continues, hand on stomach, “that has hosted many reggae fests, and has even accidentally let . . .” she trails off and counts, “two homeless people inside. I thought they were hipsters.”

Wong’s impending motherhood is “Baby Cobra” ’s most striking element, but it is not the one that has impressed other comics. “Everybody is making a big fucking deal that she was pregnant,” Bill Burr said on his podcast, when what really mattered was that “she was fucking original.” Margaret Cho said, about “Baby Cobra,” “I’ve never seen anything like that before.” Schumer told me that she considers Wong “a revolutionary in comedy.”

In many ways, though, the things that Wong describes onstage are unremarkable—the typical concerns of a person in her mid-thirties who grew up “a total private-school Asian.” She is coping with the demands of her career and motherhood. (Her standup now includes a bit about how expensive her nanny is: “My husband and I, we gotta work very hard—to not take care of our child ourselves.”) She used to be promiscuous and wild, but now she’s too tired for sex. She wants her husband, a graduate of Harvard Business School, to be successful. She is concerned about her aging mother. She eats gluten-free.

What is radical about Wong is that her discussion of quotidian domesticity is interwoven with commentary on what may be the last taboo of female sexuality: women are animals. It’s old news that women can be as raunchy and libidinous as men. Wong addresses something else, which has remained virtually unexplored, not just in comedy but in pop culture at large: the terrifically hard-core female experience of reproduction—the part that comes after the sex that so many women have already publicly declared they want. Wong describes nursing, for instance, as a “savage ritual that reminds you that you ain’t nothing but a mammal.”

When aspiring comics ask Wong how she has dealt with being a standup who is Asian or female or a mother, she tells them not to think of these things as obstacles. “You just shift your perspective and think, Wait a minute: I’m a woman!” she told me. “And most standup comics are male. You know what male comics can’t do? They can’t get pregnant. They can’t perform pregnant. So my attitude is, just use all those differences. Don’t think of it as you’re oppressed.” She switched from her normal voice to one of indeterminate ethnic origin—Chinese? Chola?—that she often uses onstage: “You special.”

When Wong is not performing, her speech is slower, and she has none of the coiled intensity she puts into her show. “People are always very surprised by how offstage with my husband I’m a completely different person . . . very soft and nurturing,” Wong says in “Baby Cobra.” She boasts that she has been packing his lunch every day for five years. “I did that so he would become dependent on me,” she continues, “because he graduated from Harvard Business School. And I don’t want to work anymore.”

Wong is her family’s primary breadwinner at the moment. Her husband, Justin Hakuta, who had a mild goatee and was wearing gym shorts and a T-shirt when I visited their house in Culver City one evening this summer, is a product manager for Internet companies, but he was between jobs. Neither he nor Wong seemed particularly concerned. “I don’t worry about that, ever,” Wong said. She was sitting on the living-room floor, playing with her daughter, Mari, who was nine months old: intent, curious, peaceful, dressed in a white onesie that Randall Park, the star of “Fresh Off the Boat,” had hand-lettered with the Louis Vuitton monogram. “A lot of people in those product-manager positions fall into a trap of getting into a startup that’s like a nightmare: crazy hours, totally disorganized, toxic environment,” Wong continued. “And I don’t want him doing that.”