If you’d told someone in the mid-2000s that the future of stand-up comedy would be squeaky clean, they’d have laughed in your face. Probably with a punchline about Dane Cook’s latest bit.
Back then, comedy clubs were temples of the edgy, the explicit and the “did he really just say that?” The louder, the raunchier, the better.
But here we are in 2025, and the biggest comedian in the world is a guy who doesn’t even cuss on stage. Nate Bargatze, with his Tennessee drawl and “can you believe this?” delivery, is packing arenas and racking up Netflix specials, all while keeping it so clean you could bring your grandma and your youth pastor.
Clean comedy wasn’t always the obvious path to success. For years, the biggest names in comedy thrived on shock value and crude punchlines. That’s still a big part of the industry, but Bargatze’s meteoric rise proves times are changing.
Jerry Seinfeld built a career on jokes about socks and cereal. Jim Gaffigan made Hot Pockets and dad bods a comedic art form. But for years, these guys were the exceptions, the “safe” options you could watch with your parents without blushing.
Respectable, sure. But cool? Not exactly.
The real action, or so it seemed, was happening in the back rooms and late-night sets where the language was as blue as the neon lights. Then came Nate Bargatze, who looks and sounds like the guy you’d ask for directions at a gas station.
He tells stories about his dad’s magic tricks and the existential terror of ordering at Starbucks. He’s not just clean—he’s aggressively normal. And that’s exactly what makes him revolutionary.
Bargatze’s comedy is so unassuming, so free of shock value, that it almost feels subversive. He’s not avoiding dirty jokes because he’s afraid of controversy. He’s doing it because he’s found something funnier in the everyday absurdities of life. And people can’t get enough.
His Netflix specials are appointment viewing. His arena tours sell out in minutes. He’s hosted Saturday Night Live. He’s the biggest comedian in the world right now—of any genre.
So what’s driving the shift?
Bargatze has a theory, and it’s not just about nostalgia for a more innocent time.
“It’s the internet,” he told RELEVANT in our latest cover story. “There are no restrictions anymore, so if you’re getting into comedy — or anything, really — there’s probably going to be a lot of cursing in the mix. Everybody can do whatever they want, but there aren’t many outlets where people can watch something and trust they won’t have a weird conversation with their kid later — or feel awkward watching it with their parents.”
In a world where every streaming service is a choose-your-own-adventure of awkward moments, Bargatze’s act is a rare safe zone. He’s not just filling a niche; he’s building a new mainstream.
“Everything’s really divided now,” he said. “TV shows are made for wives and husbands or kids. They’re not really made for families to sit and enjoy together anymore.”
That’s the secret sauce. Bargatze isn’t just clean for the sake of being clean—he’s intentionally creating space for people to laugh together, no matter who’s in the room. “That’s why I do what I do,” Bargatze says, his voice steady with conviction.
“I want you to be able to sit there with your family and have fun and not be worried. I’m just trying to entertain you. I’m trying to give you a break. Everybody has stressful lives, and you really need an outlet — and I can be that for you.”
But Bargatze isn’t just riding solo. He’s bringing a whole crew of clean comics with him. Suddenly, there’s a new circuit of comedians—many of whom aren’t “Christian comedians” per se, but who are definitely not dropping F-bombs—packing out theaters and racking up millions of views online.
Dustin Nickerson, for example, is making the late-night rounds with material that’s as relatable as it is family-friendly. There’s a whole new generation of comics who have realized that you don’t have to be explicit to be hilarious. And this isn’t your parents’ “wholesome” comedy, either.
There’s an edge to it, a self-awareness that keeps it from feeling corny or sanitized. These comics know exactly what they’re doing. They’re not trying to be safe—they’re trying to be smart.
Part of the appeal is cultural fatigue. After decades of comedians pushing boundaries just to see what would stick, audiences are craving something different. The shock factor has worn off.
We’ve heard it all before. Now, the real challenge is making people laugh without relying on the same old tricks. There’s also the streaming effect.
With comedy more accessible than ever, people are watching with their families, their roommates, their kids. Clean comedy is inclusive by design. It’s a shared experience, not a guilty pleasure.
And let’s be honest: In a world that feels like it’s constantly on fire, sometimes you just want to laugh about the weird way your dad uses his phone or the fact that you still don’t know how to pronounce “acai.”
There’s also something quietly radical about the way Bargatze and his crew have reclaimed the idea of “clean” as something cool, even a little rebellious. In an era where everyone is trying to out-shock each other, refusing to play that game is its own kind of statement. It’s not about being prudish or pandering to the lowest common denominator.
It’s about finding humor in the universal, the mundane, the stuff that actually connects us. And that’s a lot harder than it looks.
Nate Bargatze didn’t set out to start a movement. He just wanted to tell stories about his life without making his mom uncomfortable. But in the process, he’s managed to flip the script on what’s considered cool in comedy.
Now, the biggest laughs in the room aren’t coming from who can push the envelope the farthest, but from who can make everyone in the room—literally everyone—laugh at the same time.
Maybe that’s the real punchline. In a world obsessed with being edgy, the most unexpected thing you can do is keep it clean. And somehow, that’s exactly what’s working.
