Chelsea Peretti

She holds the microphone like she is exhausted by the physical requirement to hold it. Her delivery relies on a slow, drawn-out drawl that makes everything she says sound like a complaint filed with management. She will lock eyes with the crowd and describe a trivial interaction as if it ruined her month. The pauses are long. She lets the silence hang until the room gets slightly uncomfortable, then breaks the tension by admiring her own outfit.

She occupies a distinct space in comedy. She does not grind out an hour every two years on the club circuit. Instead, she built the mold for a specific kind of ironic, ego-driven stage persona. A whole tier of younger comics doing confident narcissism are essentially doing an impression of her 2014 material.

Her special One of the Greats treats the format of standup television as a target, cutting away to dogs sitting in the audience or opening with her riding a motorcycle. The material underneath the visual gags focuses entirely on her own annoyances. She mocks male comics who hump stools for easy laughs, the anxiety of getting an unwanted hug, and the physical hazards of a premade smoothie. Every grievance is delivered as if it is a profound injustice against her specifically.

People who only know her as Gina Linetti on Brooklyn Nine-Nine are already familiar with this rhythm. Her podcasting uses the exact same combative, easily bored energy, built around her triggering airhorn sound effects and abruptly hanging up on callers who fail to entertain her.