Who picks your clothes - Stevie Wonder?

Host: The comedy club smelled of bourbon, sweat, and electricity — that peculiar blend of danger and laughter that only existed when strangers agreed to risk offense together. The stage lights burned hot, blinding everything but the performer. A red brick wall stood behind it, the unchanging backdrop for changing truths.

Host: The audience murmured, restless, half-expecting brilliance, half-hoping for chaos. And in that small world of expectation, Jack and Jeeny sat in the front row, drinks in hand, surrounded by shadows and the hum of anticipation.

Host: Onstage, the microphone leaned slightly forward, waiting. The air shimmered with the residue of jokes told decades ago — ghosts of laughter still clinging to the rafters.

Host: Above them, projected on the wall as part of a vintage reel of great comedy quotes, the line flashed briefly before fading:

“Who picks your clothes — Stevie Wonder?”
— Don Rickles

Jeeny: grinning “God, that line’s brutal. Classic Rickles — funny, cruel, and somehow still affectionate.”

Jack: half-smiling “He was the only man who could insult people and make them thank him for it.”

Jeeny: “Because he didn’t punch down — he punched through. Straight through ego.”

Jack: “That’s the difference between mockery and art. Mockery wounds the body; comedy exposes the soul.”

Host: The lights dimmed slightly as another comedian took the stage. The microphone squealed — a jarring sound, like an unintentional confession. Jeeny leaned closer, her eyes alive, her voice low and steady.

Jeeny: “You think anyone could get away with that line today?”

Jack: “No chance. The world’s allergic to risk now. The edge that made Rickles dangerous — that made him real — would get sanitized in translation.”

Jeeny: “Because everyone’s scared of being misunderstood.”

Jack: “Or worse — of not being forgiven.”

Host: The new comic began his set, a safe monologue about traffic, brunch, and awkward texts. The laughter was polite — not from the gut, but from the throat. It filled the room without shaking it.

Jeeny: sighing softly “This is what we’ve traded the sharp truth for — noise that offends no one and moves no one.”

Jack: “Because we confuse kindness with cowardice.”

Jeeny: “You think insult comedy was moral?”

Jack: “No. But it was honest. Rickles insulted everyone equally. He treated the human condition like a comedy roast — nobody was sacred, and somehow, that made everyone belong.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “So equality through insult?”

Jack: “Equality through shared imperfection.”

Host: The comic’s voice droned, and a few laughs sputtered like weak flames. Outside, through the club’s foggy glass door, rain began to fall, the kind that turned the city into a slow-motion reflection of itself.

Jeeny: “You know what I think that line really meant?”

Jack: “What?”

Jeeny: “It wasn’t about clothes. It was about perception. Rickles was mocking the blindness of taste — of vanity. When he said ‘Who picks your clothes, Stevie Wonder?’ he was laughing at how much we rely on image to define worth.”

Jack: nodding slowly “So the blindness isn’t the insult — it’s the revelation.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The joke flips perception. He’s saying, ‘You can see perfectly, but you’re still blind.’”

Jack: “That’s what made him dangerous — and brilliant. He wrapped moral philosophy in sarcasm.”

Jeeny: “And forced people to laugh at their own fragility.”

Host: The crowd clapped weakly for the comic onstage. Jack and Jeeny barely noticed. The stage lights flickered, bouncing faint golden reflections off their glasses.

Jack: “You know, people think comedy’s about making others laugh. It’s not. It’s about testing truth’s tensile strength. See how much honesty you can slip into a room before it breaks.”

Jeeny: “And Rickles never flinched from the break.”

Jack: “No. He loved it. The tension, the discomfort — he knew that laughter without danger is just noise.”

Host: The waitress passed, collecting empty glasses. The club dimmed even more, as if the night itself was leaning closer to listen.

Jeeny: “Do you think people laughed at him because they felt liberated or because they felt exposed?”

Jack: “Both. Good comedy always does both. It frees you by showing you what you were too polite to admit.”

Jeeny: “That’s what scares people now — comedy used to reveal the masks. Now we build new masks to protect our feelings from the truth.”

Jack: “And call it progress.”

Host: The comedian finished his set. Applause scattered like pebbles on pavement — more habit than heart. The lights over the audience brightened slightly. The night, for a moment, felt naked.

Jeeny: “You know, Rickles once said his job wasn’t to make people comfortable — it was to make them laugh at the discomfort they already lived in.”

Jack: “Yeah. That’s why his humor still burns. Every line was a mirror.”

Jeeny: “A cracked one.”

Jack: “Which is the only kind that tells the truth.”

Host: The rain tapped harder against the windows, like faint applause from another world. Jeeny swirled the last of her drink, her eyes following the patterns the light made across the liquid.

Jeeny: “We laugh so we don’t have to look too long, don’t we?”

Jack: “Yeah. But comedians like Rickles — they made us look anyway. Then made us laugh to forgive ourselves.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what real humor is — a form of mercy.”

Jack: “Or confession.”

Host: The club emptied slowly, chairs scraping, voices fading. The stage lights cooled, leaving behind only the echo of laughter that was part joy, part penance.

Host: And as they stood to leave, the quote flashed one last time on the wall — sharp, irreverent, immortal:

“Who picks your clothes — Stevie Wonder?”

Host: The crowd chuckled again — reflexively, uneasily — not realizing that beneath the punchline lay a dare.

Host: Because real humor doesn’t mock blindness;
it exposes the sightless vanity of those who believe they see.

Host: Don Rickles understood that cruelty can be compassion,
that laughter can be absolution,
and that the quickest way to reveal truth
is to dress it in offense.

Host: As Jack and Jeeny stepped into the rain,
the city lights reflected off the puddles —
distorted, beautiful, and brutally honest —
like jokes that never stopped meaning something.