hankycode magazine is a print and digital publication dedicated to sharing queer stories.

In the Belly Room of the Comedy Store, Kylie Vincent walked onstage to the sound of applause and with the assistance of a cane. She scattered an armful of papers onto the ground, smeared with period blood. “Oops,” she said of the blood stains. The papers were her hospital bills, requesting $90,000. Her diagnosis? “MS-Brain Cancer-UTI,” she explained to the audience. “But my real incurable disease is that I keep getting up here,” she added, gesturing to the stage. 

Comedy clubs have been home to Vincent since she was a teenager. She debuted an hour titled “Bird” at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival, a defining first special about childhood sexual abuse and striking out on her own as a 16-year-old. Already a master of tragic material and wit, it’s fitting — but infuriatingly unfair — that Vincent is now slinging jokes about medical misogyny, the American healthcare system, and disability. Her new hour is titled Lesion Lady, a reference to the shadow on her brain stem. 

The new hour started during a trip to the emergency room, after half of her body became numb and she struggled to walk. “I thought I’d just gone numb from jerking it like crazy,” she describes it onstage. In the hospital, the first doctor gave a UTI diagnosis and antibiotics. She resisted, and was eventually placed in the neurology unit and diagnosed with MS: a neurological autoimmune disease that attacks the myelin protecting nerve fibers, and explained her mobility symptoms. But the lesion on her brain stem, for which the hour is named, has complicated the MS diagnosis over time. In MS, lesions tend to multiply, but not grow. During her first brain scan, the lesion was 7 millimeters. In her most recent one, it was 1.4 centimeters — double the size — and concerning enough to lead to a referral to neuro-oncology. 

Despite multiple experts and months of waiting for answers, Vincent is unfortunately cornered by the uniqueness of her brain lesion’s growth, the contradictions of her scans and spinal taps — she’s a medical mystery right now. And simultaneously, prolific. She films each appointment with a documentary crew, writes jokes in her notebooks while in waiting rooms and hospital beds, and performs ever-evolving iterations of Lesion Lady in top comedy clubs and hospital wings. When she’s not onstage or at a hospital, she writes letters to Luigi Mangione, and songs on her acoustic guitar. Free Luigi stickers are sold after every performance of Lesion Lady, and she closes the hour with her music. 

“I say this with caution because it sounds so douchey. But I feel like, somatically, it has been kind of my most successful writing process,” Vincent described of penning the jokes from her hospital bed. “It's way better when what you're talking about is what you're obsessed with. Because then it just connects to your stream of consciousness,” she added, mentioning that she adds many jokes improvisationally. “I try to let myself be open to exploring, because that's some of the best stuff that I get out of it.”

I asked if she tested the jokes on her nurses and doctors first. “I totally did,” she affirms. “They were telling me, ‘oh my god, you're the funniest, you're our favorite patient!’ And I'm in the neurology unit, so I'm like, ‘well yeah, I'm the only one that can talk in this unit.’” 

Sitting in Vincent’s lap while we spoke was her dog Bonnie, a jack russell terrier mix she’s had since 2020, who has paralyzed back legs and uses a wheelchair. Bonnie is the dog in question during Vincent’s “dogs who look like their owners” joke, which is featured in her recent 11 minute set with Don’t Tell Comedy, a snippet of Lesion Lady available on their YouTube channel.This joke is also one that she’s tried out on health insurance agents, during her grueling multi-hour phone calls.

“I'm so comfortable being myself in most parts of my life. And in doctor environments, and being on the phone and bureaucracy stuff? That stuff is the most soul-sucking stuff around. I'd get so fucking frustrated and bored that I would be like, well, let me see if I can talk to them a little more,” Vincent explained of her attempts to build connection with insurance representatives. “I would tell them my situation, then I'd be like, ‘I have a wheelchair dog at home,’ and suddenly I’d be saying, ‘dogs who look like their owners!’”

It’s Vincent’s willingness to appeal to someone who’s inclined to hurt her that I find most intriguing about Vincent’s latest hour, and really several years worth of her comedy. To tour the entire spectrum of cities and states in the US as a comic in this political era inevitably requires optimism for universal humanity — especially as a comic who’s Gen Z, queer, and joking about her experiences with sexual assault, abortion, and now, disability and the healthcare system.

“I was one time doing a show in North Carolina, and I swear to God, everyone was fifty plus, they were all old, white, conservative people. I was doing psych ward material. I was headlining, and I was bombing for 40 minutes straight. I tried everything. And I'm extremely charming—sometimes if my material doesn't work, I just do crowd work or riff. But they were not having that, either. And 40 minutes in, I go, ‘what is happening? You guys are so spooky to me!’ And then this guy screams out, ‘we think you're spooky!’ And that actually was a really defining moment for me, because I want them to not be scared of me,” she explained. “I  want to have my own voice, and I want to be strong about my perspective,” she adds when describing her political values and how they translate onstage. “But I think the point of comedy or any live art is connecting with people. Even if they don't understand everything, I want to feel like we connected.”

Connection — we’re all desperate for it in the post-modern age. The Pew Research Center currently reports that one in five adults feel chronically lonely. A recent study published in Time magazine found that between 2005 and 2019, the amount of words said per day by the average person had dropped by 28%. It seems pertinent to point out that this is correlating with political polarization; 80% of Americans surveyed in 2024 called the country “greatly divided.” Yapping with no filter is an unironic necessity in these times if you have any interest in saving the country from this discontent, and comics are on the front lines. 

 “I think the point of stand-up is, like, yes, we are different, but we're not so different from each other. We're all human beings, trying to connect. And even though I'm here to tell my

story and my perspective, I'm still trying to make people have a good time,” says Vincent. “When I was on the road, I was doing so many sets all over, in very different places, and for very different people. I came to the conclusion that, specifically for stand-up, people relate to you in a relationship way.”

Cambridge Dictionary's 2025 word of the year, “parasocial,” seems relevant. Trusting a recommendation from an influencer instead of asking a friend? Parasocial. Theorizing in a comments section that Kendall Jenner is secretly lesbian? Parasocial. People don’t cite parasociality as frequently with comics as with musicians or influencers, but I think it’s a sign that comics have mastered parasocial skills in a way that other entertainers have not.

“Audiences think, ‘oh, that seems like a funny friend of mine, or my funny aunt.’ Sometimes in those settings, the audiences see me as the kid. Like, ‘that damn kid’ —but not derogatory. They're having fun with me, but they can understand me,” explains Vincent. Rather than reject parasociality as many musicians do, or take it for granted as many influencers do, the best comics are actively trying to earn it and wield it. That pursuit of parasociality neutralizes the connotation of artificiality in the term; the relationships may not be “real,” but they are genuine. 

“Obviously I'm very leftist, and I'm 26, and I lived on my own from a very young age, and I've been doing stand-up for a long time. I do have this agency to be who I am in every setting,” affirms Vincent. “That is really awesome, and I think a lot of people don't have that agency. [Stand-up] is actually just a really great opportunity to go to older or conservative audiences to be like, ‘yes, I'm the new generation, but we still all want the same things, which is a country that's not fucking us over.’”

The right has been particularly loud about their so-called ownership of comedy, insisting they are the only ones who value free speech, and accusing the left of ruining comedy with “wokeness.” Their hypocrisy has started to become much more obvious in the past year — Erika Kirk’s tearful reaction to Druski’s cosplay of the capitalistic fervor that gripped her more than grief did after the death of her husband, Charlie Kirk, is a pretty blatant example that the right isn't nearly as loyal to uncensored humor as they’ve liked to posture. And the so-called “free-speech” believers in the MAGAsphere have completely folded when it comes to activism for Palestine, more proof that the first amendment was never important to MAGA. Yet, right-wing pundits are still clinging to the accusation that the left has “ruined” comedy, by supposedly “not allowing” dark humor.

 “It's not that these topics are untouchable,” Vincent affirmed when I raised this observation. “I feel very unfiltered up there. But everyone knows where I'm coming from, and my intentions are always really good, and to never alienate anybody.” She paused, and then added, “I feel like the intentions of alt-right comics are to get under people's skin and piss them off, and it's not even coming from a first person point of view. If you're a guy that’s trying to piss somebody off, then you're not really trying to make them laugh,” she says. “I really think most of them are, like, ‘I don't know what to talk about, let me sit down and okay, let’s see, how about I make rape jokes!’ Whereas I don't sit down and think ‘what topics should I attack today?’ They’re coming from my real life and a real place. And I guarantee none of [the right wing comics] are having sit-down interviews and being like, ‘the point of comedy is to connect!’”

 “Everyone's really angry right now, so there are so many reasons to want to take it out on specific groups of people,” she says of contemporary identitarianism. “But at this point — and I say this all the time in my stand-up — it doesn't even matter anymore. Like, there's billionaires that are hoarding money while we are all struggling to survive. The MAGA people are way closer to me than I am to billionaires, you know?”

“I am very pro-freedom of speech,” she says. “I think sometimes those more conservative people don't even know they are believing the same thing as you. Like the American healthcare system stuff, for example,” she says, bringing us back around to our discussion of Lesion Lady. “Most people will either become sick or disabled at some point in their life, and if not, you have someone very close to you that has gone through this,” she points out. “When you think about health, it's almost like it's completely bipartisan.” 

It’s this truth at the center of Lesion Lady that I think makes it the most quintessential American comedy hour of the 2020s. Health problems are the great equalizer in his country — or maybe, the great revealer of oligarchy. When it comes to politically organizing red areas, healthcare is the issue with the highest potential to unite us.

So far, Vincent has performed Lesion Lady in Los Angeles, Seattle, and New York City. The visit to New York City was a multi-purpose trip: she also attended an appointment at a top neuro-oncology clinic, and stopped by the Metropolitan Detention Center in Brooklyn, for a moment outside in protest of Luigi Mangione’s imprisonment. 

“I was only able to get in with the neuro-oncologist because someone that is famous had a similar situation to me. She had a neuro-oncologist, so she directly connected me with them. But those types of resources are not accessible for regular people,” said Vincent, explaining that posting to her instagram story and crowdsourcing recommendations and favors has been more reliable than her Covered California plan. “It has been saving my fucking life just posting on Instagram. I mean, things have been progressively getting worse and I haven't even been able to be seen here in LA,” she says, noting that the Covered California plan ended contracts with nearby hospitals, Cedars Sinai and UCLA, interrupting her treatment. “If those two hospitals are not allowing this insurance, where do you go next? Like, those are the two big hospitals in California, and it feels ridiculous. I'm in California. I should be able to get some sort of care. But instead I flew to New York.” 

Since returning from the trip, she’s doubled down on an upcoming Halloween project in Los Angeles: a haunted house expansion of the Lesion Lady universe. With the help of other artists, she’s designed American Healthcare: The Haunted House at DSP Studios in East Los Angeles, and it will be open from October 29th to 31st, from 5 to 10pm each evening.

“We're taking my specific experience, and operating under the Lesion Lady umbrella, so visitors will probably recognize elements, if they’re a fan of my stuff,” she explains. “But it's also this broader experience, a campy, immersive escape room. I’m so excited for the project. It's got so many eyes on it because people find it relatable, and also it's probably some of my bestwork yet,” she explains. The end of the haunted house will culminate into political organization: empty prescription bottles with the contact information of congresspeople and senators will be given to each visitor. One of her current inspirations is the 1990 Capitol Crawl, a protest in which a group of disabled people left their mobility aides at the bottom of the capitol staircase  and dragged themselves up, pressuring congress during deliberations of the Americans with Disabilities Act. Four days after this demonstration, the ADA became law. As Vincent preps her haunted house, she’s also prepping her appeal for getting on disability. She was denied this summer, like 67% of first time applicants. 

Lesion Lady has grown into a project of multiple dimensions, but stand-up comedy is where it all started, and that’s worth pausing and unpacking in the context of politics. “You really have to hold on to comedy, because it is, like, this beautiful opportunity. It is an amazing opportunity to have a microphone and have a bunch of people want to listen to you and what you have to say,” Vincent describes it.

In the fight for a leftist future, this power can’t be ignored. The right has erroneously claimed comedy as their territory, but part of the reason why they had precedent to do so is because the left had spent many years reducing its role in our own culture. Cancel culture accelerated in left-wing spheres, and the only comedy we consistently embraced was The Daily Show with Jon Stewart. The left didn’t hate comedy, exactly, but our view of it became so narrow that the right was easily able to gain ground in claiming the art as theirs. 

Kylie Vincent’s Lesion Lady should be our new blueprint—an interconnected project of laughter, temporary despair, art and indefatigability. We need to avoid “clapter”— the smug, snickering applause that Norm MacDonald once pointed out as the cheap substitute for laughter that the left had become privy to. Left-wing comedy ought to recalibrate to what Kylie Vincent has been doing since she was 18 years old — a laughter that connects and reveals, built on a brave sense of faith in the good will of strangers. Rooms that laugh together are rooms that can be politically organized. And that movement is starting in Kylie Vincent’s sold-out shows. 

Kylie Vincent is performing Lesion Lady this fall in Los Angeles, New York City and other cities. Buy tickets on her website: https://www.kylierosevincent.com/. Her Haunted House will be open for visitors October 29th to 31st. Follow her on instagram: @kylievincenthasrisen and YouTube: @kylierosevincent