. A blogumn by Jessica Glassberg A journey through the struggles, insecurities and over-analyzing that make a comic funny This past Sunday night, I performed at the comedy show, “Sunday, Sunday, Sunday” in Westwood.  One of the comics was onstage discussing how he tried to get excused from jury duty by pretending he was racist.  Fearing getting jumped by the Latinos and African Americans serving on the jury, he decided to say he had a deep hatred for Filipinos…. The audience laughed… The comic was not Filipino, nor Asian, nor Spanish…he was Caucasian… Should the audience have been offended?  Was it not just as “offensive” to assume he would be jumped by the Latinos and African Americans? After he finished with his set, two Asian girls left the theater… Were they offended? Was it just a coincidence and they had to meet some friends down the street? We’ll never know. Are we racist for wondering why they left? Was I offended? No…I was more upset that I have been telling my own jury duty joke for years than by the fact that he singled out Filipinos.  The joke was funny because it was unexpected…not because it was specifically about Filipinos. I am a comedian.  I am a female.  I am a brunette. I am only child. I am five foot-three and three quarters.  I am Jewish.  I am from Long Island. I am a graduate of Carnegie Mellon University.  I am a lover of Nilla Wafers and a hater of exercise.  I am a self-proclaimed half-bulimic…I binge, I just don’t purge. There are innumerable categories that can encompass who I am.  And, as a comedian, there is an unwritten law that I have free reign to discuss, poke fun at, or shine a light...