Eleven Netflix Specials by Comics Who Didn't Make Women Watch Them Jack Off

Less than a year ago, five female comedians told the New York Times that Louis C.K. propositioned them or forced them to watch him masturbate, making public long-circulating rumors about the famous standup's misconduct. C.K. subsequently admitted that "these stories are true" and promised to "take a long time to listen," but on Monday night dropped in to try out new material at New York's Comedy Cellar, where he was greeted with a round of applause. These #MeToo witch hunts clearly have gotten out of control when a man has to take ten months off from standup comedy after being disgraced for sexually assaulting women.

But if you would rather not applaud a serial sexual harasser, here is a selection of comedy that you can watch right now on Netflix starring people who did not invite two women back to their hotel room and suddenly masturbate in front of them in the nude.

Tig Notaro has become famous for her extreme deadpan humor and a set about her battle with near fatal illnesses (including breast cancer) and the loss of her mother. This set was never televised, but C.K., who was in the audience, helped her release it as an album. Even before the Times story broke she wanted nothing to do with him, hinting in one interview about an "incident" that occurred between the two of them and telling the Times she worried “he released my album to cover his tracks.” She also hasn't gone around asking women if she could masturbate in front of them.

The Daily Show correspondent's first Netflix special is a narrative treat, giving insight into growing up "brown in America." While it centers arounds his own childhood in particular, it touches on experiences that will ring true for any child of immigrants. He tells a tale of growing up in Davis, raised by parents who got married in Aligarh, India, and it will make you laugh and cry. Most importantly, Minhaj has never told a woman he has "issues" after she refused to watch him masturbate in her dressing room.

John Mulaney's hilarious Netflix specials have minted his fame and made him a household name. Kid Gorgeous is one of the strongest stand-up sets to come out on Netflix (or anywhere) this year—it manages to tack refreshing absurdity to our partisan era, like comparing Trump's presidency to a "horse loose in a hospital." The best part is that Mulaney would never non-consensually grab a friend by the neck and whisper in her ear, "I'm going to fuck you."

Gadsby pulls off what so many comedians wish to achieve—comedy as a form of social commentary, a comedy that makes you uncomfortable not because it's insulting a group of people but rather critiquing the mechanics that put the audience there in the first place. "Do you understand what self-deprecation means when it comes from someone in the margins? It's not humility, it's humiliation," she asked in a set that explicitly dealt with the subject of male artists who are terrible people. She also never made a movie that was obviously about Woody Allen's predilection for much younger women amid her own sexual misconduct scandal—because Gadsby has never had a sexual misconduct scandal.

Demetri Martin's specials sometimes feel more like a stream of punny, literalized one-liners than they do comedy sets. All hail a man who once told the audience he bought an "l-shaped sofa"— pause—"lower case." It's a less personal, more cerebral humor that nods to the wit of Woody Allen's early work without being performed by a man who has been accused of molesting a child.

The Standups features short mini sets from a number of "up-and-coming" comedians. Aparna's is the strongest among the bunch, as she plumbs the depths of her own anxieties among other plights of the internet age. You know what she doesn't do? Masturbate in front of people without their consent, because that would be sexual assault.

Wong made history by being an Asian American woman filming not one, but two Netflix specials at the peak of her pregnancies. She delivers the kind of crass parenthood comedy that comics like C.K. made famous, but doesn't have a section in her Wikipedia titled "sexual misconduct revelations."

Hari Kondabolu is famous both for his comedy work and more recently for his deep dive into The Simpson's Apu. Kondabolu's work is great for making you unpack your own "soft racism" and other biases, and he hasn't betrayed his fan base by being revealed as a serial harasser.

The only thing funnier than a great comedian is two great comedians who look identical. Kenny Lucas and Keith Lucas are a set of twins whose comedy set is appropriately named for a group who once got too high to perform at a 4/20 show. They tackle race and pop culture in their set, and neither of them have ever started masturbating in the middle of a phone conversation with a woman.

Bo Burnham's musical absurdity is a good palate cleanser for our dumpster-fire times. When it came out, it became an instant classic, a smash-up of song and choreography, incredible joke architecture synced to visual spectacle. His recent film Eighth Grade was a departure from his standup roots, and was not permanently shelved because it was inextricably linked to his grotesque personal life.

Cristela Alonzo is in that sweet spot of medium fame—big enough to land a Netflix special but not an A-lister like some of the names above. She is one of the only Latina woman to have a Netflix special, and most of her set is dedicated to lambasting the archetypes that pop culture forces Latina women to fulfill. She's a rising comic to watch, not a comic who is trying to stage a comeback after touching himself in front of women without their consent—and I think that's refreshing.

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