I'm a comedian, for God's sake. Viewers shouldn't trust me. And

Hear the candid declaration of Dennis Miller: “I’m a comedian, for God’s sake. Viewers shouldn’t trust me. And you know what? They’re hip enough to know they shouldn’t trust me. I’m just doing stand-up comedy.” These words, though framed with jest, carry the weight of truth. For the speaker confesses that his craft is not the delivering of sacred oracles, nor the shaping of solemn decrees, but the spinning of laughter, exaggeration, and satire. He reminds us that trust must be reserved for truth, not for entertainment, and that the wise must discern between the comic mask and the prophetic voice.

The comedian, since the days of the ancients, has held a peculiar station. The Greek playwright Aristophanes mocked the powerful and drew laughter from the crowd, yet no Athenian mistook his jests for divine law. The jester in medieval courts, draped in bells and folly, could prick the pride of kings, but none were so foolish as to think his words were meant as literal commandments. So too does Miller confess: his role is to jest, to provoke thought through humor, not to guide policy nor deliver ultimate truths.

Yet in his confession there lies a paradox. For while he declares that the audience “shouldn’t trust” him, the very act of comedy often reveals deeper truths than speeches and decrees. Laughter unveils hypocrisy. Satire exposes corruption. Humor, though cloaked in exaggeration, pierces the heart with insights that solemn words may fail to deliver. Thus, even as Miller warns against blind trust, he admits an irony—that the people are wise, “hip enough,” to know how to separate entertainment from earnest instruction.

History gives us examples aplenty. Consider the court jester of King Lear in Shakespeare’s telling. While his words danced in riddles and folly, he alone spoke the raw truth to the blinded king. Lear trusted his flatterers and fell into ruin, while the fool, though “not to be trusted,” carried the wisdom of honesty. Here we see that comedy is not falsehood, but rather a mirror—distorted, playful, yet often showing the hidden outline of truth.

But the lesson Miller teaches is sharper still. He reminds us not to surrender our judgment to any single voice—not to a king, not to a preacher, not to a comedian. The audience must always remain vigilant, discerning what is entertainment, what is persuasion, and what is truth. To laugh at a jest is good, but to mistake jest for guidance is folly. The comedian is an artist of perspective, not a bearer of commandments.

This truth extends beyond comedy. How often do people grant trust to celebrities, to entertainers, to voices raised upon stages, forgetting that their purpose is performance, not counsel? The danger lies in confusing charisma with credibility, applause with authority. Miller’s words serve as a shield against such confusion: never let the laughter of the moment blind you to the sober task of discernment.

Therefore, take this lesson: delight in comedy, treasure laughter, but reserve your faith for truth tested and proven. Be “hip enough,” as Miller says, to discern between jest and judgment. Let your heart be open to humor, but let your mind remain steady and unyielding. For the world is full of performers, jesters, and voices that charm—but wisdom lies not in silencing them, nor in trusting them blindly, but in receiving their art while standing firm in your own discernment.