It's the stuff that makes for nonthreatening relationship and observational humor, the kind Cook excels at. He doesn't tell jokes per se; his marathon two-hour set (are the 40 minutes of additional footage restored tonight the reason tickets were $12.50 instead of the regular $9.50?) is made up of lengthy story segments recalling a Saturday morning with his father, fighting with a live-in girlfriend, failing to show up at a party and crowd favorite "The Sneeze," a meandering tale (as they all are) involving manners and religions, and which the audience already knows well enough to shout strategic turns of phrase even as they're being delivered. Yet it's not the stories themselves that are funny, but the physical humor, facial expressions, intonation and euphemisms with which he punctuates his material. As the camera sweeps across the in-the-round stage for a wide pan, Cook mimics flipping over in a car, simulates sex atop a stool, strikes "bionic seahorse" poses, stares earnestly into each and every one of his fans' eyes and makes such asides as, "Clusterfuck is not a candy bar, no. Does not exist. Full of peanuts and fuck ..."
His onstage personality is wholly original, even if it's not outright hilarious. He may not be a bona fide comedic genius, but Cook is a promotional wizard (he has many MySpace chums), and even more so, he's found a way to unite fickle young audiences in a way that the music industry is desperate to re-create. He's a gateway drug to harder comedy, and bridging that gap takes an immense talent indeed.