Before I stopped reading replies to my tweet, four garden-variety Horsedudes of the Bropocalypse had galloped on through with responses of this variety:

Apology: “What he did wasn’t even that bad.”

Victim-Blaming: “Why didn’t they just leave the room?” (Subtext: maybe these women should leave the planet.)

Hate: “If those women were actually funny, they wouldn’t be trying to get attention this way.”

Self-Loathing (via Fellow Women): “If you can’t stand the culture, get out of the yogurt!”

And I saw this question pop up like a particularly pernicious specimen, not just in my personal Whack-a-Troll game but all over the internet: Doesn’t he deserve a second chance? Is he just supposed to disappear?

The term “I am only human” implies we’re fallible. The very concept of humanity is based on second chances.

It’s that concept of humanity that makes comedy — telling jokes in person to people night after night — work. The people in the audience know they might see you fall on your face. It’s part of the process. But they want you to win. Because if you win, they win. They laugh. The tension is released.

The world of stand-up fiercely guards the status quo, which is ironic for an art form that prides itself on “telling it like it is.” It’s why a Netflix special like Hannah Gadsby’s “Nanette” was criticized by straight male colleagues of mine for “not being stand-up” because it wasn’t all easily digestible setups and punch lines. It was an hour investigating and questioning what stand-up comedy is and how the power structures underlying it work.

Of course, an audience in a comedy club is excited to see a golden child of stand-up come through. Aside from the psychology of crowds often operating as one messy group brain, there is also an unannounced celebrity in the room. Clubs like the Comedy Cellar promise: “Anyone could drop by at any time! Even we don’t know!” In fact, the owner of the club, Noam Dworman, said he didn’t know. He said he was asleep when Louis C. K. showed up.