I like going to comedy clubs as often as I can. Hard to do in buttfuck Idaho, but I used to live 5 minutes away from the Ontario Improv in California.
This is a story of the first (and last) time I took my ex wife to a comedy show.
It was 2005, and Last Comic Standing was still around (and relevant). One of my coworkers had a massive crush on John Heffron, and I was looking for a date night idea for the wife. Lo and behold, he was playing at the Improv! Date Night + Jealous Coworker = Fun for me. (Sorry, Belinda)
I like John Heffron. He's extremely funny, and won Season 2 of LCS for a very good reason. I didn't want to aggressively molest him like my coworker did, but I'd at least go and laugh and clap.
Wifey loves the idea, so we go. We get dinner first and I load her up with alcohol, because she's a fun drunk (plus it's easier to have fun at a comedy club when you're tipsy). We get 'front of the line' seating and are next to the stage.
The opening acts come and go, and John comes to the stage. His act is like a snowball: he starts slow, and builds and builds until it's just rolling along. About 2/3 into the show, he starts to interact with the audience.
He targets us. My wife, ever the alpha, does the talking for us.
John: "So you two married?"
Ex: "Yes, going on 4 years."
John: "How many kids do you have?"
Ex, with a straight face: "We can't have kids."
She fucking stunned him silent.
For a good four seconds.
If you have ever been on a stage, four seconds is FOREVER.
The audience was silent.
Eventually he segue'd out of it and kept going, but the rest of the night just kind of felt a little weird after that.
You are at a comedy club. It's happy joke time, not time to discuss our conception issues in front of 150 strangers.
I felt sorry for John. A heckling "fuck you" or a "you're not funny" is hard enough to handle, but a "oh, we can't have kids, thanks for rubbing salt in THAT fucking wound, dude" is like a kick to the nuts.
It was still a great show, but I never suggested 'let's go to the Improv' ever again with her.
...but the funny part of it all?
A few months later, my oldest son was born. We traced back the night of conception, and it happened to be that night, the night of the show. Because of that (and a few other reasons), my oldest son is named John.
So thanks, I guess, to John Heffron. Maybe her ovaries just needed some public embarrassment to kick them into baby-mode?