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Hey, folks! So, I recently discovered this thing called Patreon. You know, the platform where people can support their favorite creators by throwing money at them? Yeah, it's like a digital tip jar. But let me tell you, entering the world of Patreon is like navigating a minefield of awkwardness. I set up my own Patreon page, thinking I'd rake in the dough. You know, people love me, right? Well, turns out, not enough to part with their hard-earned cash. It's like I opened a lemonade stand in the middle of a desert. The only person who signed up for my Patreon was my mom. And she only pledged a dollar. Thanks, Mom, for valuing my comedy career at the price of a pack of gum.
And then there are these Patreon tiers. I had to come up with rewards for different pledge amounts. I'm over here brainstorming like a mad scientist. For a $5 pledge, you get a personalized thank-you video. For $10, you get a virtual high-five. But for $100, I was thinking, "I'll come mow your lawn!" Who knew comedy came with landscaping duties?
So, now I'm stuck in this weird limbo where I'm simultaneously grateful for the support and questioning my life choices. Patreon, you've turned my comedy career into a bizarre episode of "Let's Make a Deal.
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So, Patreon promises creators this utopia of financial support and creative freedom. They paint this picture of a community rallying behind you, like you're the superhero of the internet. But in reality, it's more like being the lonely superhero with a sidekick named "Mom" and a nemesis called "Rent." I made these grand promises to my Patreon supporters. "Oh, for $20 a month, I'll release an exclusive podcast episode every week." Fast forward to me, huddled in my closet with a microphone, desperately trying to think of something interesting to say. Spoiler alert: my life is not that exciting.
And then there's the pressure to constantly deliver. It's like being in a never-ending episode of "Chopped," but instead of cooking, I'm desperately trying to come up with jokes that won't get me canceled.
But hey, I love my Patreon supporters. You guys are like the Avengers of my financial stability. Just don't expect me to save the world every month. I'm more of a "let's order takeout and binge-watch Netflix" kind of superhero.
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Alright, who here has ever contributed to someone's Patreon? Anyone? Yeah, you guys are the real MVPs, supporting artists and all that. But let me tell you, some Patreon pledges are just plain bizarre. I got this one supporter who pledged $50 a month, and their reward? I have to send them a postcard every week. I mean, I appreciate the enthusiasm, but I'm not a travel blogger. My life is not that interesting. "Hey, here's a postcard from my living room. Today, the cat knocked a glass off the table. Thrilling, right?"
And then there's the person who pledged $100 a month because they want access to my "exclusive behind-the-scenes content." What behind-the-scenes content? Me rehearsing jokes in my pajamas? I'm pretty sure that's a violation of the Geneva Convention.
But hey, if people are willing to pay for my mundane life, who am I to stop them? Patreon has turned me into the unintentional star of my own reality show, "Comedian Cribs: Where the Only Thing Getting Roasted is My Microwave Dinner.
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You know, I recently hired a ghostwriter to help me with my comedy. Yeah, apparently, they're not just for haunted houses anymore. I figured, why struggle with writer's block when you can outsource your creative process, right? But working with a ghostwriter is like having a comedy sidekick who never shows up to open mic night. I get these notes like, "Talk about Patreon," and I'm thinking, "Alright, but can we add some actual jokes, please?" It's like having a comedy GPS that just says, "Turn left for punchline."
I asked my ghostwriter for some fresh, edgy material, and they handed me a list of puns. Puns! I mean, come on, I'm not trying to start a Dad Joke Revolution here. I want laughs, not groans.
The other day, I performed a joke that my ghostwriter came up with, and the audience stared at me like I'd just recited the tax code. It's like they wrote a comedy script in Sanskrit, and I'm up here trying to decipher it.
So, note to self: next time I hire a ghostwriter, make sure they're at least alive enough to understand human humor.
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