“Yes, gasp! Exactly the reaction I wanted, the scandal! FEAR ME, FATHER, WE’RE INTERCHANGEABLE. Prepare to be hacked!” I laugh maniacally, before abruptly settling down.

“What does that mean, you guys? I’m legitimately concerned. Does my face look close enough to a forty-something-year-old man’s or does my forty-something-year-old father look a lot like a twenty-year-old girl?

“He gets Botox regularly, so it has to be the latter, right?

“Man, if it were the other way around, I’d be hitting those PG-13 movies hard.” I stop pacing and stare down the crowd. “Every day. No ID needed. Just walking on in like a real grown-up with real boobs, questioned by no one. Hit me with some Winslet nudes,” I growl.

Lots of chuckles. So far, so good.

“You know what blows the whole I’m youthful charade for Dad though—Twitter.” I bob my head around. “I mean, firstly, the fact that he even has a Twitter at all.” Someone snorts.

“But more obviously, the fact that the dude has no idea how to wield it. He’s like a bird with a laptop. There’s so much potential there, but all it decides to do is shit on the keys.”

Mild, quiet laughs.

“This is a real live tweet he sent out to thousands of followers last week.” I clear my throat and deepen my voice. “‘There’s nothing like a high-quality sandwich. Amirite. Yum.’” I raise my brows and glance around, looking for a smile. I don’t find any. “He’s really letting down the auteur community with that one.”

A distant chuckle.

Okay, not hitting. Next.

Someone coughs.

Shit.

What’s the next bit?

“Yeah, Father couldn’t be more Twitter basic if he tried.”

That is not the next bit.

My heart beats a little harder. I smile out at the now stone-faced audience. Fuck. I take a breath, trying to find the next line of my set.

I can only remember the joke I cut from the old five-minute lineup a couple of gigs ago. “What would you do with three hundred thousand Twitter followers? Take a poll about which chair to buy for your office? Because that’s how Dad does it in the Federov household.” I speak too quickly, without rhythm or pause.

No laughs. My mouth is dry.

“I’ve never actually been on Twitter myself. I am a forty-something-year-old man at heart.” You could hear a pin drop in here.

What a mediocre nothing joke! Stop talking about Twitter!

“My dad spends more time on Twitter than he does with me, so I’m thinking of making an account. Slipping into them DMs and asking for a pony,” I blurt.

One person guffaws in the back. Dear lord.

Get back to the set.

I lick my lips and stare out into the darkness.

Come on. SAY SOMETHING. Anything.

I can’t remember my act.