Louis C.K's humor is grounded in his ability to flip the script on everything we hold sacred and twists it into its absurd logical conclusion. No one can beat him at his game.
The G-word applies because Louis C.K. is, like Pryor, so much more than, and more vital than, a comedian. I’m not referring here to the quantitative "more than" of C.K.’s extra-stand-up professional life, mind-boggling as that is (writing/producing/directing/starring in his semi-auto-biographical FX series, Louie, starting its fourth season this month, large roles in David O. Russell’s American Hustle and Woody Allen’s Blue Jasmine, et cetera). I’m pretty sure I’m not even referring to content—that is, to the endless shocks of self-recognition C.K. delivers, about how we Americans are and aren’t thinking, feeling, fucking, connecting in the second decade of the twenty-first century. No, C.K.’s genius is all about how he forcefully accesses that psychic marrow of ours, "going there" in an era in which it’s gotten all but impossible to shock. There is nothing he can’t and won’t demystify or de-sentimentalize. "[My 4-year-old daughter] is a fuckin’ asshole," he rails in 2007’s Shameless, thereby pimp-slapping everything decent everyone in his audience hopes they stand for. "’You think I actually give a shit about the dog you saw?... I’ve got better stories than you. I have an interesting life. I’m on TV. I won an Emmy. You don’t ask what happened to me today in my life, you little bitch!’"
Forget demystifying. This is an obliterating genius, an absurd, self-disgusted, generous, horny, inquisitive, belligerent, deep-felt, smart-stupid, bare-naked, vulgar, deeply ruminative, face-fuckingly frank genius.