OFFICER: No blood pools, sir.
DETECTIVE: Means she wasn’t killed at this location. What we have in unflattering parking garage light is a deceased female with 400,000 Twitter followers who wrote for something called The Pearl Onion.
OFFICER: Just The Onion.
DETECTIVE: Yes. Of course. Unfunny women love cheap jewelry! I applaud women who try to make it in comedy because they seem totally unconcerned by their lack of desirability.
OFFICER: She’s wearing a laminated Comedy Central badge, sir.
DETECTIVE: She had accessories — not the jeweled kind, that’s important to clarify again. This was a unicorn-obsessed comedian who drank, swore, got messed up, forgot to shower, and rolled out of bed wearing the same clothes the next day. No, no, no. She sidled up to a gal who works at Comedy Central as a part-time summer employee or something. Why do women who think they’re funny befriend other women who also think they’re funny? The cycle repeats, and lo and behold: a female-led podcast. Before anyone could stop them, these goofballs formed a gang and cleverly disguised it as a ‘community.’ How. Sad. Is. That?
OFFICER: I found something.
DETECTIVE: The murder weapon, right?
OFFICER: An Emmy acceptance speech.
DETECTIVE: Bag it separately. Label it ‘NICE TRY, BUT THE GENDER GAP IS STILL ALIVE AND WELL IN HOLLYWOOD.’ Sarcastically or not, this jewelry-barren corpse shouldn’t have stolen an Emmy Award.
OFFICER: The victim is holding some kind of notebook filled with journal entries of razor-sharp, insightful one-liners that span farting and surviving Catholic school to serious issues like gender and race.
DETECTIVE: My hope for every little girl is that comedy is a brief phase in her life and that she grows up to be educated, somewhat employable, and makes friends in the future.
OFFICER: I found a Harvard Alumni card in her purse. Class of 2004.
DETECTIVE: Are you kidding me?!? OK, look, it’s biological. Women aren’t funny. Last weekend I spent twenty bucks with a two-drink minimum on what I thought would be tough and mean jokes. But then a middle-aged woman, known for self-made YouTube videos, walked onstage and ruined my entire evening with her shrewd analysis on current politics. I mean, I agreed with her clear argument, but I hate myself for it. I didn’t buy tickets for a lecture. Or a TED Talk. They’re not content simply to elicit laughter, now these women want to eat my soul, too? I keep replaying the incident in my head. I am so fricking tense right now! You know what I’m saying? Do you understand what comedy in the style of PBS does to a person? I’ve lost my sense of smell. Perfect for crime scene investigations! They say that comedy comes from truth. Does that apply to audiences as well? What will become of me? It was the lowlight of my comedy-seeing life! You can be goddamn sure I exited that comedy club, sat on the curb, wept, and wondered how I was going to regain my male stamina! I’ll tell you what I told the Chief Psychologist: The only thing female comedians ever taught me is HOW TO HATE MYSELF! I REST MY CASE!
OFFICER: You alright, sir?
DETECTIVE: I’ll be fine. If she were a tax manager, this murder mystery would be solved from my office window. Damnit. Nobody leaves!
OFFICER: It’s just us and the victim here, sir.
DETECTIVE: Welcome to the next forty-eight hours of your life!
OFFICER: It’s OK — I’m dedicated to this department.
DETECTIVE: So many freckles! How can I be expected to solve this mystery when the deceased is covered in blotchy freckles? Somebody call a makeup artist!
OFFICER: That’s glitter, sir. Not freckles. And there’s bruising on the torso, sir. Seatbelt, maybe. Panic braking? Sudden boost of acceleration?
DETECTIVE: By the look of her, she’s a feminist and it’s a universal truth that feminists can’t take a joke. But the toxicology report is pending.
OFFICER: Detectives watched the footage.
DETECTIVE: And…?
OFFICER: They liked it. After carefully viewing her HBO stand-up special, they agreed that she exhibited natural physical comedy.
DETECTIVE: Oh joy! Another spinster aunt who confused nerdy DNA for slapstick, am I right?
OFFICER: I can’t ask her that, sir, she’s dead.
DETECTIVE: Watch your tone. Let’s talk motive.
OFFICER: You want motive? It’ll have to wait. Detectives are still recovering from her HBO special. They’re quoted as saying, “Our heads hurt, our bellies ache, and our jaws are dislocated.”
DETECTIVE: Damn candy ass detectives. I need to solve this case A-sap! Hemorrhagic tissue fragments indicate she was doing emergency improvisation at point of impact. Let’s see if her parents can verify all-girl improv training.
OFFICER: I’ll track down a husband.
DETECTIVE: Ah-ha! Now that’s legitimately funny! Check with other law enforcement agencies. Feds, Customs, DEA. ICM, CAA, The Gersh Agency. See if anyone’s missing a comedian wannabe.
OFFICER: I’m on it.
DETECTIVE: But wait, stress that it’s female. If these agencies don’t believe you because the idea of a funny lady is so preposterous, you know criminal procedure, so use the lingo.
OFFICER: I’ll be sure to do that.
DETECTIVE: Thank goodness she can’t hurt anyone now. Do me a favor and swab this when you’re done.
OFFICER: What’s that?
DETECTIVE: The vic’s brain fluid. There are 100 billion nerve cells in the brain and I want to know exactly which highly-sophisticated synapse told her she was funny!