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Therapy Is Really Funny Actually
If you’ve consumed any comedy in the last few years, you’ve probably heard comics mention therapy. They may have told a story about going to therapy, or joked about dropping out of therapy, or riffed on the general idea of therapy. There was a period of time where it felt like every set I saw included a bit about therapy, every improv show had at least one scene in a therapist’s office, and every comedic TV show featured at least one therapist character. It made me think: Why was everyone talking about it? The obvious reason that therapy has had an uptick in mentions recently is that we’re in a pandemic that forced all of us indoors and made mental health worse for, like, everyone. There was a clear rise in need for mental health professionals, to the point where there was actually a shortage.
“Certainly, the pandemic has sort of accelerated it,” says Taneille Smith, LMFT & LMHC. “People were not just struggling because of lockdowns and losing jobs and having to stay home with their kids, but a lot of these people also already had pre-existing mental health struggles. A common phrase around the COVID crisis has been that it's sort of revealing what was already broken.”
Plus, if you haven’t noticed, current/younger generations — specifically Millennials and Gen Z — are more open than ever to talking about mental health. A 2015 study conducted by American University found that, because Millennials grew up hearing more about mental illness, they’re more accepting of it and willing to talk about it than their parents or grandparents.
“[They] seem to just be totally done with the sort of ‘don't ask, don't tell’ kind of philosophy,” agrees Smith. “I think that they're coming of age, and they have more positions of power and public figures and things like that, because people in the quote-unquote celebrities — or people that have platforms — seem to talk about it much more freely.”
That openness paved by Millennials then trickled down to Gen Z, who saw so much more discussion that it became almost normalized. “When these people on the Internet talk about their mental health struggles, this makes it easier for others around the world to talk about theirs, too,” notes an article by Verywell Mind. In essence, you’re hearing a lot more about therapy because everyone feels way more comfortable talking about it thanks to the current state of both the world and the people who live in it.
In that regard, it only seems natural that therapy would begin to become a common topic of conversation in general, that you’d be more willing to hear it discussed openly. But my original question still remains: Why am I hearing so much about it in comedy, specifically? Just the idea of therapy, before a joke was even built around it, seemed to get laughs. Why was the simple idea that Ted Lasso introduced a therapist funny? Why was an SNL sketch about Migos going to therapy so funny? Why was Stephen Colbert asking John Mulaney if he was doing Zoom therapy so funny? What was it about the mere mention of therapy that made so many people start chuckling before a real joke was even made? Sure, comedy covers a wide range of topics — from the light-hearted to the serious — but there always has to be something inherently funny about a bit. You may be thinking, “That’s what a punchline is for,” but the truth is, a punchline is only going to land if the content of the set-up is funny to begin with. So, by that logic, therapy must, in some way, itself be funny. But, again, why?
In order to answer that question, we have to break down exactly what makes something funny. There are about a thousand different theories out there (maybe you even have your own!), but there have also been a number of studies aiming to break down the concept scientifically. You could spend days digging into these theories, but looking specifically at the topic of therapy, there are a few that I think stand out as being the most applicable — so I’ll save you the time.
The first theory that seems to apply to why therapy is so funny is the idea of absurdity, called the incongruity theory, stemming from philosopher Emmanuel Kant. The basic idea is that humor must be an illusion that “tricks” us in some way — that what we think is going to happen in fact doesn’t. One example is the scene from Airplane!, when a man goes to buy a ticket and is asked, “Smoking or non-smoking?” “Smoking,” he replies, before being handed a ticket that’s literally smoking because it’s on fire. As viewers, we don’t expect that to be where the joke goes, so its incongruity leads to absurdity.
That same idea applies to jokes about therapy, because the content that makes it into comedy isn't your boring therapy stories; they’re almost always something you won’t expect. A comedian won’t spend five minutes talking about how they told their therapist they don’t like their job. Instead, they’ll tell a story about the time they raged against capitalism during their session. Someone may bring up that they went to therapy because of the pandemic, but the kicker is that it was because they think their houseplant is somehow insulting them. The idea that someone would sit in a room for an hour and rant at a therapist or talk about how they think their plant is being mean to them is absurd. What makes it into comedy routines is moreso the thoughts and ideas that may seem silly when reflected upon, and the fact that someone is going to a therapist just to express those thoughts is funny from the get-go.
“A lot of what is brought into therapy is just stuff that people don't feel comfortable sharing, because the ideas are sort of wacky. They're not quote-unquote normal,” says Smith. “In a lot of ways, they are absurd. Which is—it's funny. If you're familiar with the 12-step community, … those are rooms full of people that mostly have some kind of mental illness, but when they talk about themselves and their struggles there, there's a lot of laughter. I think it's [that], when you're not in the struggle, from a different vantage point or a different perspective, you get to see how absurd it is.”
The second theory that may account for the innate humor of therapy is the benign violation theory, proposed by professor Peter McGraw. Simply put, this is the idea that something is funny when it seems wrong (a violation) but also non-harmful (benign). This theory is a bit confusing, but the easiest way to explain it is that humor stems from the safe breakdown of norms. A pun counts as a benign violation because it goes against the norms of grammar. A dirty joke counts because it goes against moral or social norms. In the same way, talking about therapy is a violation of privacy norms. Typically, what you talk to your therapist about is between you and the medical professional, but openly talking about it in a bit goes against that expectation of who gets to know what. It’s a safe breakdown, because the comedian is in control of what’s shared, but the audience still feels as though they’re hearing something they shouldn’t.
“I'm not by any way a performer, but if you sort of lead with ‘I was talking with my therapist,’ I think it generates the feeling for an audience of, ‘Oh, I'm going to get something I'm not supposed to get [this] — I'm going to hear something special,’” says Dr. Smith. “It must, on some level — conscious or not — put them a little bit more on the edge of their seat.”
To further this theory, take again the example of a comedian talking about how they think their plant is being mean to them. There’s already some absurdity in that, but when you stop to think about the fact that they’re telling you this to begin with, that makes it even funnier. They’re sharing a story that, if it happened to you, you’d probably keep between you and your therapist. It’s equal to a comic saying, “I can’t believe I’m telling you this.” You can’t believe they’re telling you this either — and it’s just so funny that they are.
There’s also the idea of subversion. Despite Millennials and Gen Z being more open about mental health, there are still so many stigmas that surround therapy. The biggest thing is that you shouldn't talk about therapy because it will change the way people look at you. There’s the thought that going to therapy means you’re crazy and need serious help. There’s also the thought that going to therapy means you’re weak and can’t just power through like “everyone else.” By bringing up therapy in the first place, you’re already subverting the idea that you shouldn’t talk about it and introducing something taboo to the discussion. And just like I mentioned with benign violation theory, doing the opposite of a norm is funny to begin with. Then, if you take that idea and go even further, subverting the stigmas around how other people see you for being in therapy — playing off them or even heightening them to a comedic degree — you’re allowing audience members into your private world and undermining the stigmatized view. In this vein, mentioning therapy at all is humorous because it makes other people think, “This is bonkers. Why would you bring this up?”
“If I think about a sort of general stand-up routine, a lot of it is ‘I was thinking this thought,’ and it's kind of giving [a] voice on-stage, or wherever they are, to this thought that they don't share with anybody else,” says Dr. Smith. “That, from a certain perspective, is ridiculous, and it's funny, and everybody laughs. That's very similar to the dynamic in therapy. We're like, God, I feel a certain way, or I had this thought, [and] I'm too ashamed or too embarrassed to talk about it with anybody else, but I bring it here, and I talk about it. And, at least in the way that I work with people, [the goal] is to sort of take away some of the shame of having that thought and experience — whatever it is — and to be able to take a different perspective and find it humorous.”
Finally, I think it’s important to mention Sigmund Freud’s relief theory, which postulates that something is funny because it allows us to relieve tension. The discussion of therapy can cause tension for people — whether they have experience with it, because they have a stigma, or because they know nothing about it — and hearing someone joke about it allows them to laugh about it and release that stress. I’ve been at shows where a comedian has simply said, “So, who’s in therapy?” in a slightly resigned voice and gotten a laugh. It’s the idea that of course we’re all in therapy combined with the fact that of course it’s kind of strenuous to talk about, because we’re conditioned not to. Either way, there’s a sense of relief just from the very mention.
“It's a way to connect with another person in the room,” says Dr. Smith. If I'm making a quote-unquote joke with one of my clients, … what I'm doing is helping them be lighter around their struggle, around whatever issue it is. It’s usually in a way of normalizing it. Like, oh, well, welcome to being human. It just diffuses anxiety and tension.”
This whole piece is just a fancy way of saying that talking about therapy is, in fact, funny. It’s being discussed so much in comedy because no matter which approach a comic chooses to take to it, a bit about therapy is going to be funny — period. Ted Lasso introducing a therapist character is funny because it subverts the tone of the show. The SNL sketch about Migos going to therapy is funny because it’s absurd to think of them in, essentially, couples therapy. Hearing that John Mulaney does Zoom therapy is funny because we all do that, and also, should we be allowed to know that about a celebrity?
From light-hearted jokes to dark comedy, talking about therapy will always be funny, because there's nowhere to take the premise that won't make at least one person laugh. And if you disagree, feel free to bring it up in therapy.
Interview with a Comedian: Courtney Maginnis
Courtney Maginnis first came to New York to attend the Fashion Institute of Technology, but her naturally funny personality quickly eclipsed her dreams of working in fashion (it also didn't help that she was stuck in a cubicle all day). After having an incredible set at her first open mic, Maginnis bombed for weeks after; though that didn't stop her. Lucky for us, too, as she's now a stand-up comedian, co-host of the weekly show Let's See, What Else?, and co-host of Narcisistas, a pop culture podcast. I spoke to Maginnis about her jump from fashion to comedy, why Virginia is an elite state, why crowd work is actually really fun, and quite a bit about Britney Spears (no complaints here). Check it out below!
How would you describe your comedy?
This is so embarrassing. I don't know. I'll tell you what I'm trying to do — how about that? So, my favorite comedian in the whole wide world is Maria Bamford. and I think when I first started comedy — like a decade ago — I was doing a shitty rip-off of her without realizing that I was doing it. I feel like now it may be gotten to a place where I like to be a little eccentric and [use] voices and act-outs and weirdness, but I feel like I've tried to ground it in my experience and my growing up — in my past or whatever. So I feel like maybe I'm a white-trash, drunk version of Maria.
Can you talk a bit about how you started doing comedy?
I just loved performing my whole life. When I was a young kid, I did acting and plays and stuff like that, but then I got into high school and middle school, and I was a bad kid. I was like, “I can't be in a fucking play.” So I lost some of that. [Then,] I went into fashion school. That fulfilled a creative [need]; when you're in college, you're creatively fulfilled because it's everything you want to be. Then, when I started working a corporate job with Victoria's Secret, I literally was so fucking unbelievably unhappy. ... I got into fashion because I thought I wouldn't be sitting in a cubicle all day, and then that's what I ended up falling into, and that was the only way I could afford to support myself in New York. I just had this weird depression. …
I've always loved stand-up — always — but I got a little obsessive of [comedy stations on] Pandora. I would listen to comedy radio, and I just started getting into more indie people, found Maria Bamford, [and] got a little more obsessive. And I always had that base of being the funny person. My best friends … were like, “Just do comedy. Show up at an open mic; we'll go with you like, it's not a big deal.” I was like, “You guys are fucking crazy,” you know? What am I going to talk about, my tits? But that was, like, [what I ended up talking about for] the first five years of comedy.
In a podcast I listened to, you said you were a “weird art kid” when you were younger — before you became “cool.” Do you feel like you’ve gone back to that at all?
[Maginnis’s husband, Casey Salengo, interrupts: “She’s not cool.”] Casey thinks I'm not cool, but I’m fucking cool.
That's definitely exactly what happened. I think I was drawing and took acting classes and was way more shy. I think my best friends knew I was funny, but nobody else knew that. Then, I went through puberty, and I got my period and got huge tits. I was like, I have to do something with these. I think everybody's unhappy in high school, right? Because they're trying to figure out where they fit in, [but] I already knew who I was — I just took a bit of a detour. … You know, I never put that together. I'm going to write that down, and I'm going to bring it up in therapy.
You’re very fun to watch on stage, and every time I hear more about you and your past, I’m like, “This is who she is.” But I’m curious, how much of you on-stage is a persona, and how much of it is really you?
It honestly keeps me up at night sometimes. I think the times that I don't do well, people aren't connecting with the fact that it is very me. My husband or my friends will tell you it's just completely, 100% a very heightened version of myself. I am very vulgar. I drink a lot. That's just very much who I am. It's obviously very heightened. … It's also like a little bit of who I used to be. It's funny to me that I was genuinely that person.
You’re from Virginia (me too!), and you talk about it quite a lot in your sets. Could you talk a bit about why Virginia is so fundamental to your comedy and to you in general?
Oh, my God, it would be my honor. I have so many thoughts on this. It is a very misunderstood part of the country. … All my family grew up near me — like, every single member of my family. My dad's one of four, my mom's one of three … — everybody just was there. I probably talk about it a lot because it's about my family, and I grew up with all of that around me all the time. I think that's definitely part of it.
After shows and stuff, people are like, “You're not from real Virginia. I'm from Roanoke, or whatever.” And I always get so hurt by that because I'm like, you never met my family, okay? When I grew up, when I went to high school, it was super diverse. There's super-rich kids, and there’s drug dealers. It's like a weird part of the country that people don't really understand because of that. I went to my family reunions every year at like a ham and oyster supper in Orleans, Virginia, where my great-grandma owned the only store in town. That is how I grew up as a kid. But then, also, I would go to school and … I knew one kid that drove a fucking Mercedes to school. I feel like I had this weird mishmash growing up, and I think it's fascinating, and I like talking about it — and I like talking about my family.
You host a weekly show called Let’s See, What Else? With Tom Delgado, as well as a few other shows here and there. What’s it like hosting versus doing your own sets?
It's very different. Tom and I run LSWE; that is our baby, start to finish. We don't have a producer. We don't have a booker. It’s just the two of us splitting it up and just making it happen for the last six years, so I definitely feel different than I do when I walk into any other show. I feel so protective of it. We've created this community; it feels way more special than doing a set somewhere else on someone else's show.
There's just more pressure on; it's harder to host. I've done it for many years, and some people just aren't good hosts — and that's totally fine. I think you have to be kind of the right energy to be a host — you want to do jokes, you want to be comfortable with crowd work, you want to get to know the crowd. There's a lot of different requirements than just your 10- to 15- to 30-minute set that you do. … I feel like hosting, in order to make it a good show, in order to set everyone else up for success, there's a lot more pressure on you to do a balance. … When you're running a show, you have to pay attention to every little detail. Is the upstairs music too noisy? Is the room too bright? There's just so many other things you can do to make comedy better or to make it easier for the comics to have a good set — set them up for success. ... It feels [like] more of a production.
Speaking of crowd work, I heard you say once that you love it, which I find so interesting because many comedians really despise it. What draws you to crowd work?
I just want to say that those comedians are fucking pussies. First of all, it's way more fun than writing a fucking joke. I think anyone can watch my act and realize I like it. It's a skill. It's something you have to learn in addition to learning to do comedy, so it's fun to work on that skill. It makes the moment feel more natural. I just can't connect with the people who go on, and every set is exactly the same. I understand those people are going to have great writing jobs, and they're going to write hilarious shit for TV, but that, to me, is not the best part. No one is going to laugh as hard at a written joke, and they will [laugh harder] if something happens in the moment and you have a funny comment on it. That is like you're all in on an inside joke. The connection of it is better, and because of doing Let's See, What Else?, I feel so comfortable with it, because that's how we start each show. It’s given me a skill without even realizing it that I love to utilize. Yeah, it just feels special.
People are fucking crazy. People are insane. People say the most wild shit. There is definitely a point where it gets [to be] too much, and you don't want a whole show to be all crowd work, but a couple times during [a] set is so fun.
Something that I love about LSWE is that you and Tom have this amazing rapport between the two of you, which isn’t always the case with a duo act. What’s it like working as a pair?
It's very fun; I love it. People have their opinions on co-hosts. Here’s the thing about it: … Tom and I are friends, so we started with a good base. But I think it took us like a little while of doing it every single week to get to a really good back and forth. There is no one in the world that I trust more on-stage than Tom. We have done hundreds of shows together. I feel so free to do whatever, because I know he'll save me, or vice versa. … I think a lot of people try to co-host, and it's hard. You just have to have the time to build up that comfort with each other. But, I think it's the best. … The best in the world is when I find new jokes just riffing with Tom. I find new premises and new things that I want to talk about [while] just being stupid with him. It's so low pressure to talk things out, because again, there's that trust. I know that if what I'm about to say isn't funny, he'll make fun of me, and then it will be funny. … To me, it's very freeing, and I love it.
You’re also a big pop culture fan, especially of celebrities I’ll call “divas” (though I don’t love that label). This isn't a comedy-based question, but I just want to know why you love this brand of celebs so much.
How much time do I have? I grew up in the late ‘90s, so when I was really little, it was like Whitney and Mariah, and I was like, oh, my God, these women are amazing, and I'm obsessed with them. Then it became Britney and Destiny's Child and Christina — I just feel like I grew up in like the TRL [MTV’s Total Request Live] era; that will just be with me in my spirit and my soul forever. Then, [I became] an adult and watch[ed] everything they went through — I'm talking the Mariah breakdowns, the Britney shit — what they've been dragged through, the way we've treated women as a culture. ... Now, as an adult person, I'm like, “Holy shit, I've watched all these girls become billion-dollar empires,” and I fucking live!
Also, I love that music; I love pop music. I love R&B. … That's my music. I already have that, but my fascination with them is [that] they represent how we've evolved as a culture. I … was in college during the tabloid era, and watching how all of them handled that — it's so fucking fascinating to me.
You also co-host the podcast Narcisistas, where you talk about pop culture and yourselves, often digging into a specific celebrity or moment. Do you think that deep analysis of pop culture affects how you think of or move through the comedy industry at all?
I wish it did more. I mean, yeah, I think so. I mean, a great example is how Britney is just like totally herself. … She's got Instagram, [and] we get to know how wild and weird and funny she is. … I think that not being afraid to completely be yourself [is one thing]. I think this is the thing that Beyoncé has done so incredibly. Beyoncé gives every single part of herself that she wants you to see. She’s masterful. If you listen to all of her albums in a row, you know her entire love story with Jay-Z, but you don't know what the fuck happened, because she's not giving you all the little messy fucking details. She is so fucking vulnerable without being messy.
I guess I will say that it [affects] maybe not how I moved through the comedy industry, because I still work a day job. Maybe [moreso] how I approach comedy or what I'm like inspired to do or whatever. You know, these girls inspire me.
What’s a joke you love that never seems to land or that lands really inconsistently?
So it's like, “Britney's free. Straight men, don't clap; you did nothing,” which is my favorite line of anything I've ever said in my life. I'm talking about how I think Britney should crank up the revenge. You're posting nudes on Instagram, which is great, but I wish she would bring the umbrella back. People don't remember that — she smashed a paparazzi car with an umbrella. I think it's fucking iconic. … Then I also say I think in my head that I'm a Beyoncé, but I'm a Britney. Like, Beyoncé doesn't follow anyone on Instagram, and Britney follows like her fan pages. Like, I'm Britney.
I end up telling this story, which is 100% true: I begged my mom for a strobe light, and she made me get a job at the mall. I ended up getting a strobe light [from her], but I also bought another strobe light from the mall, like from my mall money. … I wanted to recreate the [I'm a] Slave 4 U video. I have a whole bit; I shortened it. It still doesn't really work, but I fucking love it.
You can catch Maginnis co-hosting Let's See, What Else? every Wednesday at 7:30pm at Poco. You can also listen to her talk for hours about pop culture (and herself!) on the Narcisistas podcast alongside Wil Cope. For more, head to Maginnis's Instagram or Twitter.
This interview has been edited and condensed for clarity.
Saturday Night Dead?
The Bad: Beating a Meme to Death
Saturday Night Live has always been a promoter of mainstream comedy — even if they want you to think otherwise. In fact, SNL was created because the “underground” comedy of the ‘70s — led by the youth — was becoming the popular form at that time. “The only way this show would work would be if the young embraced it — if it was a show for a younger audience,” executive producer Dick Ebersol is quoted as saying in Live From New York. That’s really the foundation of what SNL is supposed to be: a show for the younger generation who are defining what exactly mainstream comedy is. It’s why people say the best era of the show is the one that was on when you were in high school — because it was tailored to your taste at that time. It can be argued that, at this point, that’s not really SNL’s goal anymore — that they’re more interested in appealing to the masses, of as many demographics as possible — but there’s still a strong sense of wanting to connect with the youth.
There are a few problems with that approach nowadays, though. For one, when you’re diving into what younger people find funny, you have to turn to the internet — which, if you didn’t know, has about a million corners with about a million different things happening in each. It’s nearly impossible to point at something and say it’s universally funny. In the 1970s, mimicking a newscast with absurdist jokes was guaranteed to kill (see: The Kentucky Fried Movie, the National Lampoon Radio Hour, Weekend Update, etc., etc.). But with comedy being as widespread and diverse as it is today, that tactic just doesn’t work. So what can you do when you want to appeal to as many young comedy consumers as possible? You look for the closest thing to that “absolute” bit: memes. Because memes are considered fairly universally funny and have been an evolving part of culture since the dawn of the internet (and even before!), it’s an easy thing to draw from. It’s also extremely lazy. Drawing comedy only from memes is like reading an online summary to write a book rapport — which, I would argue, most of us have done, meaning most of us know that the success rate for this is only, like, 30%.
That surface-level skimming may generate sketch premises, but the thing is that memes are just vehicles for bigger jokes. So, in essence, taking a meme and turning that into a whole sketch will just give you a hollow, overplayed premise, rather than an actual joke. The most recent example is the Elmo segment from Weekend Update. The premise comes from a feud between Elmo and Rocco, which is literally a rock, that originated on an episode of Sesame Street. Using quotes from Elmo on TikTok had become quite popular, and then it moved to Twitter, and then (I guess?) naturally, it was picked up by SNL.
Here’s the thing: SNL went for the literal premise of the meme. They featured Elmo talking about his hatred for the rock, but what made it funny online was the way that people were twisting the audio or scene to be a completely new joke. The feud was being used to make fun of someone/a group of people/something you hate, like when you’re surveying your newly-cleaned apartment, but then you see all the dirty dishes in your sink (those dishes are Rocco — get it?). Or when you’re saying hi to all your teachers, and you have to begrudgingly greet the one teacher you hate (that teacher is Rocco). The meme is the premise, and the joke is what comes out of that. But on SNL, the meme was the joke. And while it worked to some extent, eventually, it just felt like beating a dead horse.
The other problem here is that memes are so ever-changing, so quick to transform, that by the time they reach the screen on Saturday night, they’re no longer funny. While SNL arguably got the meme on the show quickly, they were definitely at the tail end of its popularity. It has since been eclipsed by newer memes, and much of the internet considers it overplayed. It’s comparable to the usage of memes by brands; when a major brand uses a meme, it’s generally considered dead. SNL is even more of a killer than a corporation. That’s because, when a show that’s supposed to be a beacon of what’s currently funny grasps at a trending Twitter moment that its audience has already been overexposed to, they’re essentially giving it a public funeral.
Of course, sometimes SNL gets it right, like when they slid the green M&M joke into the cold open in last Saturday’s episode. It was a quick enough reference that it was still funny and relevant, but it wasn’t the whole joke. Unfortunately, that’s typically not how they treat memes or trending moments. It’s what gave us the truly terrible Elon Musk episode — along with a slew of other things, most of the premises they chose were bad, over-played memes.
The show has moved from being a vehicle for up-and-coming comedy or new styles to being a mirror of what we see every day on social media. In its attempt to appeal to the masses, it’s missing the fact that what people want is something new. SNL thrives when it brings forth something you’re unfamiliar with; it’s why Lonely Island got as big as it did, why Eddie Murphy’s characters were so popular, why people tuned into the Stefon bit every week, and why Please Don’t Destroy is already getting so much praise from critics. By rehashing the most mainstream topics every week, they’re dumbing their own show down, and it’s obvious. They’re saying that what comedy is right now isn’t boundary-pushing or innovative — it doesn’t make you think or appeal to a niche audience — because the only thing people find funny is the content they’re exposed to 24/7.
If SNL is going to just be an hour and a half of trending Twitter topics and TikTok sounds, what’s the point of tuning in? At that point, I’d rather skip it and just scroll on my phone for an hour and a half instead.
The Comedy Showcase
Here are some things I enjoyed that I hope you will, too!
1. John Early and Aidy Bryant Go Public with Their Relationship on Late Night with Seth Meyers
2. Netflix dropped a trailer for Welcome to Murderville, an upcoming improvised comedy show from Will Arnett.
3. When a comedian with a distinct style hosts SNL, you're basically guaranteed a good monologue. For that reason, I can't stop watching Will Forte's very Will Forte-esque monologue.