Comedy has always pushed boundaries. From Lenny Bruce and Eddie Murphy in decades past, to modern comics tackling religion, politics, race, and sex, stand-up has thrived on taboo topics. But somewhere along the line, some comedians discovered that poking fun at transgender people is a quick and easy “edgy” fix. It’s a trope as old as the myths about us: the punchline, “Wait—you’re a dude?” or “But what about bathrooms?” jokes. We see these jabs manifest on stage, on late-night TV, and in Netflix specials. For us trans folks, hearing these jokes goes beyond mild annoyance; it is demoralizing, alienating, and can even be dangerous.
I’m a transgender woman who spent my teen years in the 80s. Back then, homophobia and transphobia were the norm. In those days, if you were any part of the LGBTQ+ spectrum, it was standard to keep quiet or risk exposure to ridicule—or worse. When I was a kid, I remember jokes about “men in dresses” being tossed around, especially on TV sitcoms. Each time, I’d laugh along—or at least pretend to—because it felt like the only way to survive. But the cost was that I denied my own identity every time. The world might have changed in many ways since then, but a lot of older comedic habits refuse to die.
Today, comedy is at a crossroads. On the one hand, we have progressive voices like Hannah Gadsby, Seth Meyers, Michelle Buteau, and a few others who manage to highlight social issues, including transgender experiences, without resorting to tired slurs. On the other hand, we have big names like Dave Chappelle and Ricky Gervais, who double-down on anti-trans sentiments, claiming to be “pushing the boundaries of free speech.” The question is: where do we draw the line between free speech that’s edgy and entertaining—and cruel speech that actively harms the communities it targets?
In her latest Netflix special, “Michelle Buteau: A Buteau-ful Mind at Radio City Music Hall,” Buteau lays out a vision of comedy where the craft can entertain while “making people feel safe, seen, secure, heard, and entertained.” She then contrasts this perspective with what she sees in other comedic acts—like Dave Chappelle’s routines, which often include transphobic jokes that belittle an already vulnerable community. Her message is clear: “It’s not funny. It’s dangerous. Make it funny. That’s all.” It’s a simple plea for empathy and a call for creativity. Comedy, at its best, explores bold territory without throwing entire communities under the bus.
Anthony Jeselnik, the king of dark and edgy humor, has a stage persona steeped in unapologetic jerkiness—babies, tragedy, and everything you might be advised never to joke about. Even he opens his 2024 special, “Bones and All,” with a quick dig at the mandatory “trans joke,” only to turn the notion on its head. He’s lampooning not trans folks themselves, but other comics who treat the trans community like easy comedic chum. He even clarifies in post-special interviews that his jab was pointed at the wave of comedians who seem to think that cruelty = creativity. By doing so, Jeselnik—ironically one of the “darkest” comedians out there—manages to show a glimmer of moral clarity.
Meanwhile, Seth Meyers, in his 2024 stand-up special “Dad Man Walking,” delivers another masterclass in how to address trans topics without devolving into bigotry. He jokes that while many stand-up sets nowadays start drifting into anti-trans material around the midpoint, his set won’t. Rather than making the trans experience into a punchline, he invites the audience to compare the challenge of adapting to a family member transitioning to the challenge of adapting to someone becoming vegan. If you’ve ever hosted or attended a holiday dinner with a brand-new vegan in the family, you know that you’ll be reading labels, Googling recipes, and side-eying the gravy boat. Meanwhile, simply acknowledging someone’s new name or pronouns usually takes less than a single breat. That’s the brilliant comedic twist: It’s actually far more complicated to accommodate your vegan cousin at Thanksgiving than it is to treat a trans person with respect.
What does this say about how mainstream comedy has approached trans identities and topics through the years? If you’re reading this as a trans person or an ally, you already know how it feels to be singled out. The difference between comedic “punching up” and “punching down” can mean the difference between a sly commentary on society and a harmful stereotype that encourages violence or discrimination. And with laws popping up that restrict trans healthcare, trans youth in sports, and even gender-affirming bathroom use, hearing jokes that label us as “weird,” “predatory,” or “inconvenient” only piles on the stress. If someone is on the fence about how they feel about trans people, hearing a comedic idol’s routine endorsing negative stereotypes might tip them toward hostility rather than empathy.
Learning from the Past
Having grown up in the ’70s and ’80s, I remember a time when mainstream culture was a daily assault on LGBTQ+ people. It wasn’t just the occasional name-calling; it was an entire comedic genre that made queerness the punchline in countless sitcoms and stand-up shows. Back then, language was used more freely in a way that would stop our hearts now. Words we’d never say publicly today were peppered in comedic routines almost as punctuation. Many of us, especially older trans folks, can recall watching stand-up comedians who used gay or trans characters solely for cheap jokes—never letting them be real, complex people with perspectives, pain, or joy. It was as though we existed only to “trick” or “shock” the unsuspecting straight public.
Society has inched forward since those days, but we remain haunted by the echoes of that era. And I mean haunted: we see it come up every time a major comedian rants about trans women’s bodies in bathrooms or treats the existence of nonbinary people like the punchline of a bizarre riddle. It’s a throwback to an earlier time when straight, cisgender voices ran the cultural conversation, and LGBTQ+ folks got shoved to the sidelines.
Comedy’s Role in Cultural Perception
Comedy holds tremendous power in shaping collective attitudes. While it’s a simple enough concept—comedians make jokes, people laugh—there’s more depth at work. Comedy can break down walls, highlight social injustices, and shift perspectives. Think of the countless comedians who have used their sets to talk about race, political corruption, or mental health. Through humor, we can better understand one another. Conversely, lazy, bigoted jokes can convince an already-skeptical audience that their biases are justified.
Not every person in the audience is taking comedic material literally, of course. However, a small but notable subsection might. Worse, those jokes can become repeating earworms, repeated in break rooms, barbershops, family dinners. Before we know it, we’re hearing the same tired transphobic stereotypes from people who might not personally know a single trans individual. The jokes spread and can mutate into microaggressions or violent ideations, the sort of environment we don’t need in 2025.
It’s worth distinguishing between free speech and accountability. Despite what certain comedic giants might argue, being criticized for your brand of humor isn’t “cancel culture.” Comedians are free to make jokes about whatever and whomever they want. But the flip side is the rest of us are free to react, to push back, to decide we won’t pay for those tickets or stream that special. Just as comedic speech is protected, so is the speech that calls out hatred.
The irony is that many of these comics claim they’re being “silenced” while on multimillion-dollar tours or in Netflix’s top ten. They lament that the “woke mob” is trying to control them, even as they rake in millions and climb the next rung of comedic success. There is no ominous hand controlling them; there is a collective audience saying, “This isn’t cool. This is hurting people.”
The Netflix Dilemma
Is Netflix trying to play both sides of this cultural divide? Perhaps. On one hand, they’ve financed specials from Dave Chappelle and Ricky Gervais, no strangers to anti-trans bits. On the other, they produce material from people like Michelle Buteau and Hannah Gadsby, who either speak out for trans rights or critique the media’s willingness to give anti-trans content a global platform. Netflix, like many corporations, operates on a profit motive. They’ll likely continue to invest in any comedic act that garners millions of views—even if it fans the flames of bigotry.
That’s not surprising, given that Netflix is a business, not a human rights organization. But it does lead to a brand conundrum: you can’t fully celebrate a fun, inclusive, heartfelt, and progressive special like Buteau’s and champion an arguably hateful stance from another comic without it starting to look a little hypocritical. A streaming giant can say “We embrace diversity!” all they want, but if they follow that up by supporting comics who degrade transgender people, it’s an empty statement.
Moreover, the cultural cues that Netflix and other networks send out matter. When they put their big marketing push behind an anti-trans performer, they’re effectively telling the world, “This is valuable. This is worthy of your time.” The comedic endorsements become an indirect endorsement of the philosophies behind the jokes.
The “Edgy” Excuse
A repeated defense from certain comedians is: “These jokes are edgy; they push boundaries.” The question is, though—whose boundaries are being pushed? If we’re talking about making a paying audience of mostly cisgender folks squirm at the idea that maybe trans people are actually human, that’s not boundary-pushing. That’s old-school bigotry with a fresh coat of marketing. “Edgy” used to mean speaking truth to power; it meant going after institutions, calling out injustices, or highlighting hypocrisy. It was about making the audience think. But aiming at a group that’s already marginalized, battered by legislative targeting, and misrepresented by mainstream media? That’s not rebellious or bold. That’s what the bullies did back in high school.
And the aftermath extends well beyond the stage. Every time a high-profile comedian rants about the “outrageousness” of trans identities, thousands of fans feel validated in their worst assumptions. They might see the joke as permission to demean trans people at home, in the locker room, or online. In an era when violence against trans individuals—particularly trans women of color—remains alarmingly high, jokes that reduce trans women to “traps” or “freaks” fuel a culture that tolerates cruelty.
Free Speech vs. Social Accountability
I grew up believing in free speech. I’m old enough to recall the debates over everything from controversial rock albums to scorching political satire. And I’m a firm believer that creative expression—even if it’s offensive—is vital. Yet when folks push back against certain comedic material, we’re told we’re trying to “cancel” comedians. That’s not it at all. What’s happening is that we, as an audience, have the same right to speak out. If a comedian can call an entire group “unnatural,” “predatory,” or “confusing,” then we can make our voices heard and say that’s wrong, harmful, and yes—lazy.
Comedy can, and often should, offend. But good comedy stands on its own skill, wit, and a certain respect for the craft. If offending a historically marginalized community is the big punchline, you’re not exactly showing comedic genius. You’re just picking on someone smaller—someone who deals daily with misunderstandings, discrimination, and threats. It’s akin to the difference between an elementary schooler who swears for shock value and a skilled satirist who uses language to illuminate truth and hypocrisy.
Empathy, Not Censorship
What Michelle Buteau is calling for isn’t censorship. She’s not saying, “Nobody is allowed to joke about trans people.” She’s saying, “Make it funny without degrading a whole group.” It’s the same premise as comedic sets that talk about race or religion without descending into hateful territory. We have plenty of great examples of comics who can make jokes about race—Chris Rock, Wanda Sykes, Hasan Minhaj—without encouraging bigotry. We’ve also seen comedic routines featuring body positivity, gender diversity, and sexuality in fun, creative ways.
Let’s be real: trans folks can be funny. We’ve got comedic angles to explore, from the weirdness of navigating clueless questions (“So, what do I call you now?”) to the joys of self-discovery (“Wait, you mean I can wear anything I want?”). We are more than just props, and we have more experiences than just our coming-out stories or comedic angles about bathrooms.
But if we continue to let the “trans joke” revolve around stale fearmongering, we’re essentially handing free reign to people who refuse to upgrade their repertoire. It’s like letting a stand-up reel off a half-hour of jokes about airline food in 2025. We’re no longer living in a world where the default comedic narrative about trans folks should be “Isn’t that weird?” or “What’s in their pants?” If these jokes were ever amusing, that moment has come and gone. Now, it just comes off as mean or dangerously ignorant—or both.
A Personal Reflection
Watching the comedy landscape of the last decade reminds me of seeing the same tired play over and over, but with different actors. When I was a kid, I was the one left out, the “weirdo” who needed to be laughed at to satisfy the majority. Now, decades later, I’m seeing major networks pay millions to keep that narrative alive. Yes, sometimes jokes about any group can be hilarious if they’re done with nuance, and a comedic perspective that is inclusive rather than punching down. But we seldom see that approach when it comes to trans issues. Instead, we get bathroom jokes, pronoun jokes, or jokes about “it” or “that guy.” Rinse, repeat.
Sure, we can all brush off a joke here or there. But these jokes accumulate. They shape how the world sees us and, for trans youth, how they see themselves. We’re told that we’re not welcome, we’re laughable, and we don’t really belong. That message might be easy to ignore if you’re a cis person unaffected by transphobia. But for us, it’s exhausting and frightening.
Hope for Change
Sometimes, it feels like we’re miles from a moment where a major comedian steps up and calls out their peers as Buteau did. But we see glimmers of hope. More mainstream comics are rejecting the notion that mocking trans people is automatically comedic gold. The audience, especially younger viewers, are also pushing back. Jokes that degrade marginalized groups no longer guarantee applause. If anything, they garner groans, bored sighs, or folks walking out.
Moreover, as more trans comics and comedic actors gain visibility—like Patti Harrison, Jes Tom, and Jinkx Monsoon (known primarily as a drag performer but also comedic in approach)—the comedic narrative evolves from within. We get more voices from people who know the experience. These comedians can joke about transness in ways that are deeply funny and authentic, without giving into stereotypes or fueling bigotry.
The Bottom Line
We can’t control the free market of comedy. There will always be an audience for cheap jokes, and there will always be comedians who go for the lowest-hanging fruit. But what we can control is how we, as a broader community, support or reject those jokes. We can turn off the special, skip the live show, speak out on social media, or write letters to streaming services. We can promote the comics who are bringing new perspectives, who prove that it’s entirely possible to be uproariously funny without punching down.
Comedy has always been an ever-shifting mirror of our culture. If that mirror starts reflecting new truths—like the fact that trans people are simply people—it has the power to normalize respect, empathy, and acceptance. If the biggest comedic voices can stand up for trans folks, or at the very least not degrade us, perhaps it sends a ripple effect through the entire comedic universe.
As Michelle Buteau says, we have the power to “live in the shades of gray where the love and humanity exists.” That’s where the best jokes come from anyway—a shared recognition of life’s complexities, not a blatant disregard for a vulnerable demographic. Whether it’s Buteau calling out Dave Chappelle, Anthony Jeselnik subtly shading him, or Seth Meyers drawing a parallel between trans acceptance and vegan diets, each small step shows that thoughtful comedy is still alive. There’s room for everyone.
The core message is clear: Trans people aren’t a punchline. When that becomes the default assumption in comedy, the entire world will be better for it. We’ll see jokes that challenge assumptions rather than reinforcing them, jokes that unify rather than alienate, jokes that say “We see you” rather than “You don’t belong.” Isn’t that a better way to use a microphone?
Comedy is evolution at 90 miles an hour. The words said on a stage or streamed to millions have a power we sometimes forget. Maybe, in an ideal future, nobody will be “the butt” of jokes—at least not purely for existing. We can’t scrub every ill-intentioned or unoriginal joke from the world. But we can promote an environment where no one is forced to laugh along at their own expense just to feel safe.
Perhaps that’s what Michelle Buteau, Anthony Jeselnik, Seth Meyers, and Hannah Gadsby have been advocating in their own ways: that we stop scapegoating entire communities in the name of “edgy comedy,” and instead push comedic frontiers that uncover shared truths. Because in a world already tough on so many fronts, humor should relieve tension and connect us—not bring more darkness. And for us trans folks—who are used to being misrepresented, attacked, or ignored—that shift is deeply appreciated. Our stories, our humanity, and our humor belong on the stage, too, but not as cheap, worn-out jokes. It’s time to step forward into an era of comedy that embraces wit, empathy, and genuine creativity.
Until then, we’ll still be here—watching, critiquing, sometimes laughing, but always ready to point out that the old, tired trope of “trans as a punchline” doesn’t fly anymore. We deserve better. And frankly, if you’ve got even an ounce of comedic skill or imagination, you can do better, too.
