Why Do Some TV Shows Rely On Humiliation For Comedy?

My best friend loved playing 'jokes.' On my birthday, she projected my worst photos in front of everyone, saying she just wanted to 'liven up the mood.' When I was on my period, she deliberately gave me a defective pad. Even when she saw the stain on my clothes, she said nothing–claiming she was helping me 'get more attention.' After I started dating, she edited my photos into suggestive images and spread them across social media groups, pricing them like a product. When I finally snapped and confronted her, she just laughed. "I'm just helping you test your boyfriend," she said. "If he doubts you, then he doesn't really love you. How can you blame me?" Later, a man used the information from those posts to track me down and harm me. I did not survive what followed. However, when I opened my eyes again, I was back to the day she first shared those images.

Before leaving work on Thanksgiving, my younger sister, Mia Summers, sends a message in the family group chat with the address of our new home. I take five different buses to get there, only to discover that the address leads to nothing but a desolate, overgrown wilderness. Mia sounds smug on the other end of the phone as she says, "Bingo! The prank worked! The last bus has left. What are you going to do now?" As I stand there dumbfounded, my parents burst into laughter. "You actually fell for that? I wonder who you got your stupidity from. We're having a family dinner. Walk back yourself." After that, they start to argue over who I resemble more on the phone. In desperation, I use the last bit of battery on my phone to call my boyfriend, Simon Ziegler. The call connects, and I hear the same familiar background noise. Simon chuckles mockingly. "Chelsea, your parents also told you to make your own way back. It's not the first time Mia's pulled a prank on you. Don't be such a sore loser." Then, he hangs up on me without another word. In the past, I would call them in tears and beg them to get me. But this time, as I look at the distant lights across the city, I finally decide not to give in. Mia loves her Thanksgiving pranks, and my entire family indulges her. Two years ago, she threw peach fuzz into my cup and triggered my asthma. Last year, she switched out my shampoo with hair removal cream, ruining an important job interview. This year, my family has helped her trick me into going to the middle of nowhere, even though they know I'm afraid of the dark. And at the dinner table, they're betting on how many minutes it'll take before I call and beg for mercy. However, I don't cry or plead. Instead, I walk into the darkness, away from home. I'm ending this cruel game, whether they like it or not.

In the fifth year of being locked up in a psychiatric hospital, my husband, Cole Foster, finally agrees to discharge me. But when the ward door is opened, I see multiple cameras aiming at me. "Congratulations, Ms. Lawson. The five-year reality show in the psychiatric hospital has officially come to an end!" R-Reality show? I look thunderstruck by the news. At that moment, Cole, who's supposed to sweep me into a hug, shows up. He says calmly, "Joanna, this is a reality show that Natalie has planned. You're just a trial subject whom I've chosen to help her record this show." 300 million people have participated in the voting session. Just like that, Natalie Jackman becomes the most popular director in the reality show world. Meanwhile, I've gotten electrocuted to the point I keep shuddering violently. It's a norm for me to drool subconsciously and go into lapses of haziness from time to time. Cole personally unlocks the handcuffs that have bound me for the past five years. "Now that the show is over, you may go home."

At the annual company raffle, I had barely stepped onto the stage when my supervisor, Lily Smith, pressed a crumpled slip of paper into my palm. "A special reward for our top salesperson," she chirped. "Go ahead, open it. Let everyone see." Under the eager gaze of the crowd, I unfolded the note. Written in messy handwriting were the words: Clean the company toilets for three days. The room erupted in laughter. Lily folded her arms, cocked her head, and smirked at me. "Nice, right?" she said. "Everyone knows those sales of yours came from sleeping with old men. Dirty money. To keep things fair, the others get a break, and you pick up a little extra work. You don't have a problem with that, do you?" The laughter surged again, nearly lifting the roof. From the side of the room, my boyfriend, Seth Hoffman, the company's CEO, watched everything unfold. As usual, he said nothing in my defense. They all thought I would fall apart, cry, or make a scene. Instead, I simply gave a calm nod. The very next day, the company was hit with over three hundred property cancellations. Its cash flow collapsed overnight. That was when Lily and Seth rushed to me, demanding I go plead with the buyers. I smiled and said, "No thanks. I wouldn't want to help the company recover and end up with strong numbers again. That might make everyone even more uncomfortable."

On the day Owen Mercer and I get married, I place our marriage certificate beside our candlelit dinner. Just as I'm about to take a picture and upload it to social media, Owen suddenly says, "This certificate is fake." I freeze. A woman's startled voice comes through his phone, "Hey! Why did you tell her so soon? You ruined all the fun!" Owen frowns in frustration. "She's been completely clueless this entire time. Is there really any reason to keep pretending? Fine. You win the bet, Ms. McCoy. Are you satisfied now?" But my post has already been shared on social media. Everyone is sending their congratulations to Owen and me, celebrating that we have finally tied the knot after seven years together. The woman on the other end leaves a sarcastic comment, just like how she used to bully me back in the day. "Wow, look at you two finally making it official! So when's the reception? Hehe!" After a moment's thought, I respond, "Next week."

Dad was terrified of being laughed at. Every holiday, he only ever said one thing. “Do not embarrass me.” The relatives were sitting around chatting when I accidentally knocked over a fruit platter on the table. He grabbed me right there and slapped me across the face. At dinner, I reached for a second helping of pot roast, and he kicked my chair out from under me. Later, when it was time to hand out gift cards, Uncle Ray miscounted and came up one short. Without a word, Dad shoved me out into the hallway in nothing but a thin shirt. The cold cut straight through me. I pounded on the door while I cried and apologized. He did not make a sound. He turned to Uncle Ray with an apologetic smile and said, “Sorry about that. I guess I have not taught this kid any manners.” He did not know that his lessons had already conditioned me to flinch at the phrase “laughed at.” Every time I heard it, I froze and felt myself shut down. When I heard him say it again through the closed door, I turned in silence and walked toward the dark bridge at the edge of the neighborhood. I did not know what I planned to do. I only knew I wanted the noise in my head to stop. I reached the railing and stared at the water below. One thought crossed my mind. “Dad, this time, no one will ever laugh at you because of me again.”