Chu Duxiu kept her eyes down, her heart in turmoil, unsure if she would pass. The script she had written this time was for the open mic competition. String Bean had said she didn’t have the guts to be provocative—so she decided to go all out. Some of the content wasn’t even broadcastable.
Xie Shenci remarked, “This piece seems a bit pointed.”
He had seen many stand-up performances, and quickly understood who she was aiming at, guessing there had been some recent friction between them.
Chu Duxiu glanced up and stole a look at him. “I’m not allowed to say it?”
“Of course you can. These are your true feelings—there’s nothing wrong with speaking them out.” Xie Shenci sighed lightly, a bit helpless. “It’s just… I need to ask you first—am I qualified to edit your script?”
Mainly because the topic she touched on probably wasn’t something he should be changing. Someone like Lu Fan would be more appropriate.
It was rare for Chu Duxiu to see him this hesitant, and she was suddenly a bit amused. “Didn’t you insist on being a mentor and editing scripts?”
He teased back, deadpan, “But I didn’t expect you to write so well. Me editing this piece… feels a little unworthy.”
Hearing him say that, Chu Duxiu knew he wasn’t against it, and her anxious heart finally settled. She comforted him with a grin. “It’s alright. Knowing you’re unworthy might just help you edit it even better.”
“?”
At the Hongyan Theater, the stage was set with a high stool and a microphone. The enclosed, focused space could accommodate up to eighty audience members. This was the venue for the Shanle Training Camp’s open mic competition, where trainees would test out new material and showcase the results of their recent training.
The staff had specially arranged the venue—there were designated seats for the camp’s instructors and students, as well as areas reserved for registered audience members. Each ticket came with a voting slip, allowing attendees to select the three performers who left the deepest impression. The slips would be dropped into a ballot box upon exit to participate in the vote for “Shanle’s Strongest Newcomer.”
People began to filter into the theater. Seats in the front row were first come, first served, and many audience members had arrived early.
With laughter and chatter filling the air, the crowd followed the staff’s guidance to their seats, quietly awaiting the start of the open mic show.
Up on the second level, a camera was recording the audience as they entered. From this vantage point overlooking the entire venue, Xie Shenci and Shang Xiaomei leaned against the railing, watching as the space below gradually filled up.
“Even though I’ve worked on plenty of shows by now, every time I see a scene like this before the show starts, I still get a little emotional,” Shang Xiaomei said wistfully. “When I first joined Shanle, I already had a plan—if stand-up comedy really couldn’t take off in China, I’d just cut all these years of material into a documentary. At least then it wouldn’t feel like I’d wasted so much time.”
Xie Shenci glanced at her. “I wouldn’t mind, but Shang Liang definitely wouldn’t agree.”
Shang Liang was one of the co-founders of Shanle, primarily in charge of funding and financial management. He was also an old acquaintance of both Xie Shenci and Shang Xiaomei.
“True,” Shang Xiaomei scratched her head guiltily. “Saying that is like jinxing his investments—he’d probably come after me with a knife. We’re just chatting anyway. Of course, I’m still hoping we’ll see more outstanding comedians emerge, and that the stand-up scene really starts to thrive.”
Xie Shenci replied, “This round of trainees should produce quite a few good ones.”
Backstage, most of the trainees sat outside watching the open mic show. Only those about to go onstage stayed in the dressing room, waiting for their turn to perform.
Wang Nali held a small makeup brush in one hand and a compact mirror in the other, tapping the brush lightly against the edge of the mirror to shake off excess powder. Glancing at Chu Duxiu beside her, she offered, “Want me to do your makeup?”
“No need. Who knows—maybe the front row audience is all nearsighted and can’t even see my face clearly.”
Chu Duxiu politely declined her friend and kept her eyes fixed on the small screen. Something was weighing on her mind. She felt more nervous than usual and was anxious to see if String Bean would perform as scheduled.
Although the audience wasn’t allowed to record or film inside the theater, a monitor had been set up in the dressing room so performers could watch the live show. On screen now was Scallion, animatedly telling a story that had the audience roaring with laughter.
Wang Nali said, “He’s really killing it tonight.”
Chu Duxiu nodded. “I’ve seen a bunch of his sets at bars. I think his style and the boss’s are the best.”
Inside the venue, the atmosphere had been warmed up by Scallion’s performance. Shang Xiaomei was full of praise. “For a newcomer, he’s really solid. If he keeps this up, he might just make the top ten.”
Xie Shenci responded, “Mm.”
“So cold?” Shang Xiaomei shot him a glance and muttered, “Don’t tell me you’ve got another favorite rookie?”
“Something like that.”
Scallion wrapped up his set to thunderous applause. After the host’s transition, it was time for the next performer.
String Bean took the stage. As usual, he was lanky as a stick and wore his signature dark green beret. Unlike his quiet, brooding demeanor offstage, his presence onstage was much more upbeat and lively.
“Hi everyone, I’m String Bean. After all those kiddie jokes, it’s time for some adult stand-up. Can’t let you come all this way for nothing—I know exactly what you’re here for…”
The audience smiled knowingly.
“Anyone here not okay with being offended? Anyone?” String Bean lifted his hand like a telescope, scanning the audience. “If so, I’ll have to ask you to leave, haha! Stand-up’s all about offense! One more question—anyone here not okay with dirty jokes? If you are, I might have to trouble you to head out too. Everyone gone now?”
“Alright, I’m gonna get started. I don’t know if you’ve noticed this, but sometimes women just don’t get humor. You joke with them, and instead of laughing, they ask you, ‘You think that’s funny?’”
“There was this one time during a show—I’d barely started my set when a woman in the audience stood up and suddenly asked me, ‘You think that’s funny?’…”
String Bean launched into his routine in full force. A seasoned performer, he was animated and expressive, his lanky frame adding to the comedy. Every so often, he’d throw in a raunchy punchline that sent the audience into fits of laughter.
His stage experience more than made up for the weaker writing. His lively delivery kept the room warm, and while the applause wasn’t as enthusiastic as it had been earlier, the overall vibe of his performance remained solid.
After a while, Shang Xiaomei sighed. “His material always sits in this weird, uncomfortable space. It’s frustrating. Maybe I’m just too sensitive, but every time I’m about to laugh, there’s always a line that throws me off. Like just now—‘men should be manly, women should be girly’—you get what I mean? I know stand-up is supposed to offend a bit, but it still makes me uncomfortable…”
As a director, Shang Xiaomei had to offer professional feedback, but some of String Bean’s wording genuinely rubbed her the wrong way.
Xie Shenci said, “I understand.”
String Bean’s punchlines often touched on off-limits topics—the kind of jokes that couldn’t be aired online—but they tended to work decently in live settings. He had a fondness for crude humor, like the cards slipped under hotel doors or karaoke bar “hostesses”—material far from highbrow.
This was actually the reason he had been placed in the training camp in the first place. Compared to other veteran comedians, many of his jokes weren’t suitable for broadcast. Xie Shenci had hoped he’d develop some new material, but so far, there hadn’t been much progress.
Onstage, String Bean seemed a little frustrated that his laughs didn’t match Scallion’s. He continued trying to liven up the room and casually pointed at an audience member: “Some of the ladies here look too afraid to laugh. Like this one—so serious. Was the joke too dirty?”
“All you delicate fairy types, too shy to come down to earth. It’s alright—you can laugh. Those hotel cards don’t have your photo on them.”
He let out a few laughs himself before diving into the next part of his routine.
The woman he had singled out, however, visibly stiffened at his comment.
Back in the dressing room, Wang Nali frowned slightly and muttered, “Seriously, what’s so funny about that? It’s just disrespectful.”
Chu Duxiu stood up. “I’m going to get ready to go on stage.”
She had initially worried about accidentally targeting the wrong person, but it turned out String Bean hadn’t changed a bit—still telling the same old jokes, his delivery just as exaggerated as ever.
“So early?” Wang Nali asked.
“If I keep listening, it’ll corrupt my humor database.”
Wang Nali laughed.
On stage, String Bean delivered his final punchline and stepped down to applause—but the reaction wasn’t nearly as explosive as Scallion’s.
“It’s hard to judge that kind of set,” Shang Xiaomei said, shaking her head. “But I can’t deny some people were laughing. Let’s just say I’m not the target audience.”
Xie Shenci added, “If he could write different kinds of material, he might have more room to grow. But from the looks of it, this is probably it for him.”
The atmosphere inside Hongyan Theater gradually returned to normal. Several more performers took the stage in succession, but their jokes lacked highlights, causing some audience members to occasionally yawn.
Most of the live audience were women, but the stand-up comedians were mostly men—until Chu Duxiu appeared wearing a sky-blue sweatshirt.
She walked up slowly, reached for the microphone, and began naturally, “Hello everyone, I’m Chu Duxiu. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but sometimes men just don’t get humor.”
The words sparked surprise throughout the hall.
Light laughter came from the women in the audience, as if recalling the earlier performances, instantly piquing their interest in her comment.
One trainee whispered, “What does she mean? That sounds like String Bean’s act just now.”
The only difference was that Chu Duxiu had switched the premise from “women” to “men.”
Scallion excitedly whispered to his companion, “Is this about to turn into a fight?”
String Bean had caused quite a stir at the training camp last time. Chu Duxiu hadn’t argued with him then—who would have thought she’d actually write a bit about it.
The trainees, who had seemed a little tired moments ago, suddenly perked up, eager for the drama!
String Bean was also stunned, his face turning dark—he had no idea where she was headed with this.
Chu Duxiu didn’t look at the other comedians’ expressions and remained fully immersed in her performance. She sighed, “To be honest, I’m a comedian who doesn’t like dirty jokes—not because I’m pretending, nor because I’m morally superior—it’s simply because they’re not funny.”
“I’m sure everyone’s had that boring boy in their Chinese class. When the teacher teaches classical poetry, he gets even crazier than watching stand-up—just repeating ‘Stopping my carriage, I sit to love the maple woods at dusk’* over and over. No matter how seriously the teacher explains, he just goes ‘heh, heh, heh, heh’ with this weird laugh the entire lesson!”
She shrugged and tapped her head with a finger. “You can’t even criticize him for being childish—you start wondering if he’s a little slow.”
Laughter broke out in the audience.
Someone loudly agreed, “Exactly—”
“Now stand-up is like that too. Half the audience is female, but some male comedians keep telling dirty jokes. Do you think that’s okay?”
Chu Duxiu’s face was serious as she counted off on her fingers. “I have to be blunt—KTV hostesses, those little hotel door cards with women on them—some people’s material seems only related to nightlife workers.”
Shang Xiaomei’s eyes widened, intrigued. “Wow, she’s definitely aiming at certain people.”
“If you insist on toeing the line to get laughs, it looks really unprofessional. What do you think stand-up comedy is?” Chu Duxiu said with righteous indignation, tugging at her sweatshirt. “If you really want to do it, why not do half the joke—just pull up your T-shirt and show off your six-pack and V-line to the ladies!”
“Have you even watched short videos? That’s toeing the line—that’s a dirty joke!” she said confidently. “Stop sticking to just neck-up stuff. If you want to see that kind of nonsense, why don’t we all just go to JJWXC?”
“They say it’s adult stand-up, but it’s not really ‘stand-up’ at all. Don’t they know how to please the audience!?”
“Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!”
Chu Duxiu’s bright and innocent expression contrasted sharply with her extremely bold words. Her witty and vivid performance swept through the entire theater like a whirlwind, resonating not only with the women in the audience but even making the men laugh with their heads down.
Any drowsiness in the theater instantly vanished, replaced by laughter and cheers bubbling up like foam, as if ready to blow the roof off the auditorium.
String Bean’s face went pale and flushed in turns. He hadn’t expected her to break down his jokes and actually roast them with style, causing the crowd to double over with laughter!
He had mocked Chu Duxiu before for not daring to be offensive—today, he’d been unexpectedly roasted himself, painfully hitting a wall!
Chu Duxiu didn’t care what he thought. Since he insisted on offense, why should she hold back?
“And some guys always misunderstand, thinking women don’t talk about sex because they’re shy, just like they think female comedians aren’t offensive because they aren’t funny. But they’re totally wrong,” Chu Duxiu frowned. “In reality, you’ll find a lot of men’s humor revolves around their lower half—and their humor is just like their lower half…”
“None of it really works.”
Her performance was sharp and biting, but it wasn’t direct name-calling. Instead, it had a laid-back, satirical tone that gave her comedy a unique edge.
A woman in the front row—previously singled out by String Bean and described as too serious to laugh—now couldn’t hold it in. Before Chu Duxiu could even deliver her next line, she was already laughing so hard she started hiccuping.
“When a woman says, ‘You think that’s funny?’ he thinks she’s just being cute and flirty.”
“When a woman says, ‘You’re so dirty,’ oh boy, that actually turns him on.”
“I’ve recently figured it out—what you really should do is just say: ‘You. Have erectile dysfunction.’” Chu Duxiu pointed her finger, face completely expressionless. “Say it like a doctor—calm, cold, and clinical.”
“He’ll definitely shout in denial, throw a tantrum—but don’t argue with him.” She gave clear, composed instructions. “Just smile knowingly, then do what those annoying boys in Chinese class would do: raise your brows, squint your eyes, and go ‘heh, heh, heh, heh’—give him that creepy little laugh for a while…”
Chu Duxiu glanced toward String Bean from across the room, exaggerated a wink and a smirk. “And then tease him—‘See? I can do men’s humor too!’”
The theater erupted in thunderous laughter—it was easily the high point of the night.
The audience was blown away by her humor, clapping so hard they nearly broke their palms. The women in the front row clapped especially hard, as if her set had hit a nerve in the best way—like sweet revenge, and they could barely stop themselves from cheering out loud.
Shang Xiaomei was laughing uncontrollably at Chu Duxiu’s razor-sharp set. Grinning from ear to ear, she turned around and said, “She’s one of your trainees? Incredible—I love her!”
Every trainee’s open mic script had to be reviewed and edited by a mentor. The audience might not know the content in advance, but the mentors definitely had to read it beforehand.
What cracked Director Shang up the most was the fact that such a bold, provocative routine had actually passed through Xie Shenci’s hands!
But no one nearby responded.
Shang Xiaomei turned her head for a glance—only to find that Xie Shenci was nowhere to be seen. He had already quietly slipped away.
Translator’s Note:
*The original line from the poem is “停车坐爱枫林晚,” which literally means “Stopping the carriage, I sit and admire the maple forest at dusk.” However, the phrase “坐爱” (zuò ài) sounds exactly the same as “做爱” (zuò ài), which means “to make love” in Chinese. Because of this homophone, the phrase can be humorously or suggestively misinterpreted as “stopping the carriage to make love in the maple forest at dusk.” This kind of wordplay often becomes a source of jokes or innuendo.
