Никита

The deadline was yesterday. There are those who do it in advance, and those who learn about "in advance" from other people's stories. But I left the house: the tasks are open, I'm outside, it's night, laughing. "Oh, is this today?"—three words that turn Tuesday into a sprint. Tomorrow I'll start differently. I say it exactly as many times as there is a tomorrow.

A stand-up comedy session is the most honest test of a joke: if only your partner laughs, then the joke was meant for both of you.

The best thing about paired performances is the moment when both of them forget their routine and start talking for real.

We agreed not to interrupt. We lasted about four minutes—and that, frankly, is a record.

Every time I promise myself to go to bed early, the phone pushes another video, and after forty minutes it doesn't matter anymore.

Every time I promise myself to go to bed early, my phone prompts me with another video. Forty minutes later, I'm lying in the dark, laughing at the raccoon, whose week has clearly been worse than mine.

It's always the same here: a hallway, a wall, and the thought, "Why am I even doing this?" It passes right at the first laugh.

The best five minutes of a performance are the ones that aren't written. They're impossible to replicate on a second stage.

The smaller the hall, the scarier: in a large one you can’t see faces, but here you can see everyone who isn’t laughing.

Мой напарник по сцене. Он смеётся над моими шутками первым — это одновременно приятно и подозрительно.

Разбираем сразу, пока помним зал. Через день помнишь только собственное лицо.

Он повторяет текст, я делаю вид, что не волнуюсь. Оба врём.

Ни зверя, ни таблички, ни музыки. Только микрофон — и сразу видно, работает шутка или нет.