Spotlights and Screen Time: When the Farm Phone Rings Mid-Set
Forget hecklers; my biggest comedic challenge is a FaceTime call from the barn while I’m mid-punchline under the stage lights. Balancing a comedy career with the relentless demands of “these kids”—my four-legged, feathered, and perpetually hungry farm family—means my green room rider usually includes hay, grain, and a very strong signal.
Dialing In from the Dust: The Ultimate Multitasking Act
There is a specific kind of adrenaline that comes from performing a live comedy set. You’re tracking the energy of the room, timing your delivery, and leaning into the laughter. Then, the vibration starts in my pocket. In the city, a ringing phone is a faux pas. In my world, a ringing phone usually means someone has escaped their enclosure and is currently trying to break into the neighbor’s vegetable garden.
Performing “FaceTiming these kids during my show” isn’t just a bit; it’s a lifestyle choice. I’ve reached the point where I don’t even hide it anymore. I pull the phone out, hit accept, and suddenly the audience isn’t looking at me—they’re looking at a close-up of a goat’s nostril. There is nothing more humbling than trying to land a joke about dating apps while a donkey named Daryl is judging your life choices in high definition on a 20-foot projector screen.
The “Kids” Are Not Alright
The audience thinks it’s a staged gag. They see the screen flicker to life, revealing a chaotic scene of chickens fluttering in the background or a cow staring blankly into the camera lens. They laugh because they think it’s part of the “farm-life comedian” persona. I laugh because if I don’t, I’ll cry, knowing that Daryl has definitely figured out how to unlatch the grain bin again.
These “kids” have no respect for my career. They don’t care that I’ve spent years honing my craft or that I’m wearing a blazer that cost more than their annual supply of salt licks. To them, FaceTime is just a portal through which they can yell at me for being fifteen minutes late with their evening snack. I’ve had to explain to a room full of two hundred people that I need to wrap up the show early because the “twins” (two very stubborn sheep) are currently staging a sit-in on the hood of my car.
Logistics of the Long-Distance Livelihood
The transition from “Stage Presence” to “Barn Manager” happens in microseconds. One moment, I’m talking about the absurdity of rural Wi-Fi; the next, I’m squinting at the screen trying to determine if that’s a new fence tear or just a trick of the light. The audience gets a front-row seat to the reality of the hustle. It turns the show into a communal experience. We aren’t just laughing at the jokes; we’re collectively rooting for the chickens to stay in the coop until I get home.
It’s a bizarre intersection of two worlds. In one, I’m a professional entertainer seeking validation through applause. In the other, I’m a glorified janitor and food dispenser whose boss is a pig with an attitude problem. FaceTiming the farm during a show reminds everyone that behind the microphone, there’s a person who still has to go home and check the perimeter for coyotes.
The Encore No One Asked For
Usually, the call ends with a chorus of “awws” from the crowd, while I’m left staring at a frozen frame of a muddy snout. It’s the ultimate reality check. No matter how well the set goes, I’m still the person who has to go home and negotiate peace treaties between the farm dog and a rogue raccoon.
I might be losing my mind, and I’m definitely losing my professional dignity, but at least my “kids” always keep the material fresh.
