event Hannibal Buress

Chicago-raised stand-up (and Saturday Night Live writer) Hannibal Buress had to overcome a few things early in his career: His delivery is the epitome of patience-trying—it often takes a few minutes of his wry monotone to figure out what the hell he’s talking about—and the material is mostly left-field observational stuff that’s equal parts inviting and off-putting. (“I’d love to kick a pigeon,” begins one head-scratcher.) But Buress has gotten sharper by the day, to the point where his jokes about fire SUVs and “the next big blind guy” are no longer odd, but seen as a window into his wonderfully skewed sensibilities.

Chicago-raised stand-up (and Saturday Night Live writer) Hannibal Buress had to overcome a few things early in his career: His delivery is the epitome of patience-trying—it often takes a few minutes of his wry monotone to figure out what the hell he’s talking about—and the material is mostly left-field observational stuff that’s equal parts inviting and off-putting. (“I’d love to kick a pigeon,” begins one head-scratcher.) But Buress has gotten sharper by the day, to the point where his jokes about fire SUVs and “the next big blind guy” are no longer odd, but seen as a window into his wonderfully skewed sensibilities.

Chicago-raised stand-up (and Saturday Night Live writer) Hannibal Buress had to overcome a few things early in his career: His delivery is the epitome of patience-trying—it often takes a few minutes of his wry monotone to figure out what the hell he’s talking about—and the material is mostly left-field observational stuff that’s equal parts inviting and off-putting. (“I’d love to kick a pigeon,” begins one head-scratcher.) But Buress has gotten sharper by the day, to the point where his jokes about fire SUVs and “the next big blind guy” are no longer odd, but seen as a window into his wonderfully skewed sensibilities.