CHRISTOPHER CURTIS

The Montreal Gazette reporter once thought he had rabies, but it turns out he was just hungover.

A show that was weaker than the sum of its parts. I love that W. Kamau Bell, Jessica Kirson and Laura Kightlinger took risks, pushing the audience into awkward territory with jokes about race, sexuality and matricide. But there was a lot of really safe, broad material that would have gone down better with a fifth of whisky or two.

Boy, Rick Mercer seems like a nice guy! If you paid for Mercer, you got vintage Mercer — a wholesome, affable performer who cracks wise about Canada’s size (it’s a really big country, which is funny), softwood lumber and our handsome prime minister. And there’s nothing wrong with that. But in a year when Canada’s 150th birthday has sparked an honest, sobering conversation about this country’s legacy of violence, Mercer’s aw-shucks take on things feels a little dated.

W. Kamau Bell referring to former White House press secretary Sean Spicer as the “bare minimum amount of sperm it takes to make a human being” is a takedown I won’t soon forget. On a night when most comics aimed for the middle of the road, Bell challenged the audience. Laughter is often a nervous reaction to an uncomfortable truth, and I love that the mostly white audience (myself included) was never sure when to laugh.

I never thought I’d laugh at the thought of someone killing their elderly mother with a Glock 9mm. I was wrong. Laura Kightlinger owned her set, and not because her stuff was edgy. She had such an understated, dry delivery, but her whole set was incredibly tight. Google her sometime.