A poster on a telephone pole: Like strippers in their prime, we look good on a pole.”
A poster on a telephone pole: Like strippers in their prime, we look good on a pole.”
“Writing can be lonely. It doesn’t have to be.”

What Do Stripper Jokes Have to Do with Writing?

Maylin Tu
Maylin Tu
Nov 3 · 5 min read

“Have you read my books?”

“No.”

“All I write is humor.”

I was sitting in front of a coffee shop during my meeting with the founder of Writers Blok (a Los Angeles based co-writing space) and we were talking about the joke. The one that I’d complained about. The one that got me kicked out.

I wasn’t there to debate humor with him, but of course the joke came up. He said it was innocuous, that he’d showed many other people and they all agreed with him.

I’ve also informally workshopped this joke. Some people like it. Some people don’t. Some people think it’s sexist and offensive. Others do not.

I told him the joke felt like an anomaly to me, like their Instagram had been hacked. Previous Instagram advertising: “Something something bright spaces for bright ideas.” This Instagram advertising: STRIPPERS. And that’s when he asked if I’d read his books. I hadn’t.

“All I write is humor.”

So if I’m understanding correctly: This joke is crucial to the Writers Blok brand because the founder is a humor writer. Gotcha.

I don’t have official demographic information, but anecdotally I would say that most of the members at Writers Blok are women. I would say the most typical member is a white woman over 40.

He added, “We host stand-up comedy at Writers Blok. People are going to be offended.”

This hadn’t even crossed my mind at the time, but it was true: Writers Blok hosts monthly parties that are half mixer, half stand-up comedy show.

*rewind*

When I went to my first Blok Party, I wasn’t offended. I was weirded out.

First of all, there was no food. I repeat, THERE WAS NO FOOD. But there was an unlimited supply of beer and sparkling water. The Asian in me was aggrieved by the lack of chips, pretzels, side-salads, stale crackers, moldy, expired grocery store sushi—anything—because I WAS STARVING.

Second of all, the majority of the comedians told jokes from a pointedly patriarchal perspective (please someone, make this the name of a real comedy show). There was one female comedian, the rest were men. I was left going, huh? Several other women commented on it after the show—I wasn’t the only one. There was a general sense of, WTF? When I brought it up to a friend later, she described the comedy as: “MEN. Men. Men. Men. Men…WOMEN.” It felt dated, like we had been transported back to a more regressive time, definitely not Los Angeles in 2019.

I wonder if the same rule applied to the comedians that applied to all of us at Writers Blok: No talking about politics. I’m guessing this rule was meant to encourage community. But it also suggests, true or false, that gender roles aren’t political.

“People are going to be offended.”

Okay. But how come the people getting offended or weirded out are never the people in power? I felt alienated by this stand-up show that was meant to be entertaining. Maybe that was intentional, maybe I was meant to feel out of place.

Humor often functions as a litmus test: Do you really belong here? Are you laughing when you’re supposed to laugh, smiling when you’re supposed to smile, and above all else, happy to be here? It felt weirdly like pressure to be “just one of the guys,” to be the cool girl who survives on a diet of Blue Moon, LaCroix and twelve almonds a day. The one who laughs at your jokes even if they’re not funny — especially when they’re not funny, a Manic Pixie Dream Writer Girl who never, ever complains.

I didn’t enjoy the Blok Party that much—the vibes were super sketchy. A few men I knew from writing together during the day seemed emboldened to leer at me with half-squinting, unconcealed appreciation. One dude hit on me pretty aggressively by the baby pool filled with ice, beer and La Croix. It was the kind of party I wouldn’t want to go to alone, even though I was a member.

I imagine what that email would sound like: If you’re not going to show up and play beer pong or corn hole while networking with your fellow writers, then here are some writing spaces that you might find safer.

BUT DO THEY HAVE SNACKS.

Truth is, the joke did really bother me.

Why not just “Like strippers, we look on a good pole”? It wasn’t like, OMG strippers, how DARE you. It was the qualifier of “in their prime” that really got to me.

I would argue that the joke triggers disgust because it forces you to take on a repulsive point of view: If the first thing that pops into your mind when you hear “in their prime” is “young,” then you are implicated in believing that women naturally degrade over time. Every minute, every second that slips through a woman’s fingers decreases her market value. Cool. Of course, some people do hold that point of view. Society holds that point of view.

If the first thing that pops into your mind when you hear “in their prime” is “thin,” then you are implicated in believing that women who are not thin don’t look good, couldn’t possibly look good on a pole.

I don’t think of this joke as some arbiter of good or bad, right or wrong — If you laugh, you’re Ted Bundy or if you don’t laugh, you’re a moral hero. I don’t think it’s funny, but if you do, that doesn’t make you a bad person or mean you have an inferior sense of humor. Of course it’s complex.

But if your only response to someone calling a joke potentially “sexist” or “objectifying” is to promptly cancel them, perhaps you are prone to treating human beings like objects, as so much trash that you can just throw away, as less worthy or valuable or appealing than a piece of paper taped onto a telephone pole with clear packing tape.

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