Kristine Levine: Fat Whore

There's a point, as any watcher of live comedy may well agree, where one realises that the notional quality of a performance reflects far more upon the individual viewing then the performer performing. Of course, it's somewhat of an illusion that this might ever be anything other than the case. But perhaps it takes a performer like Kristine Levine—the eponymous and utterly unashamed Fat Whore of the piece—to remind us that this really is the case.

So, to come clean: I struggle to laugh at the idea of Levine's kids being made fun of because they are obese; I don't share Levine's mirth at the story of the guy who died in the "jack shack" of the porn store in which she worked for 13 years; or even the one about the time she dug out a bit of drywall, chopped it up to make it look like coke, put it in a bag, dropped it in a pool of semen and waited for someone poor desperate to snatch it up and snort it. I'm uneasy with her liberal use of the word "bitch"; much more so her thoroughly illiberal views on rape.

But to my great shame, that says more about me than it does Levine. As the Portland-based comedian points out, her aim isn't to preach but to share an insight into a troublesome life so clearly unlike that of her audience – surely the point of any worthwhile art? Nonetheless, to simply label Levine "outrageous" seems a cheap strategy for keeping critical colours free from the mast. This is undoubtedly a discomfiting and alienating hour; but comedy it probably isn't.