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When Ronnie Macaroni jumped into comedy 10 years ago, it was on the back of a bit about a yeast infection. And not just any yeast infection, but one that made the comedian want to commit suicide.
Previously, Macaroni, 38, had been attending her friend’s boyfriend’s standup show. She continued to go after her friend’s subsequent breakup. At the encouragement of her then-mentor, she decided it was her turn to take to the mic.
Six years after that, Macaroni, who was raised in Chico, Calif., touched down in Portland after leaving San Francisco. Fresh out of her own breakup, she visited the Rose City for Pride and never left, remarking, “Shit, if I had known Portland was this gay, I would have come a long time ago.”
While Macaroni’s comedy (and life) has transcended her initial bit, one thing that’s remained the same is her dedication to getting macabre, and personal, with her comedy.
“The humor comes from that full cycle [of emotions],” she says. “I’m gonna make you laugh, and I’m gonna make you laugh at some things that you’re gonna go home and think about, or feel bad that you laughed. People always ask me, like, what do you talk about? And my comedy is mostly autobiographical, you know. I’m talking about myself and my experiences and my perspective.”
Anyone who has seen Macaroni perform can attest to her wit and enthusiasm, especially when delivering punchlines involving what are generally considered sensitive topics.
One of Macaroni’s most memorable jokes, for instance, involves her parents being dead (see intro). It’s sometimes followed by a chorus of “awwws” from the audience, before she quickly delivers a final punchline: “It’s OK, your parents are gonna die too. You’ll get your time to shine, OK.”
When Macaroni, who is half Puerto Rican and half Jewish, was growing up, her parents loaded up their hatchback and drove the children from New York to Chico. She attributes her dark humor to her interracial roots and humble upbringing.
“My mom had seven kids in total—she had five girls—and because her parents came from ‘El Fanguito,’ which means the mud slums, she didn’t really have shit to give us [girls] when we turned of age,” Macaroni says during one of her effortless jokes about her family’s socioeconomic status. “She just put us all in order and gave us this hand-me-down pussy, y’all. She gave it out like a Russian nesting doll and shit. It’s like a pussy inside of a pussy inside of a pussy inside of a pussy.”
Macaroni doesn’t shy away from joking about her reproductive health, either—or the ironies of American hypocrisy. “Y’all I don’t have kids, I don’t want them. But my uterus though, that bitch want a baby,” she jokes, going on to liken her uterus to a “fucking bank robber and shit.”
She adds, “I’m like 10 abortions deep, I don’t want a baby. And you know what’s worse than having 10 abortions? Having 10 babies! I’m one abortion away from a free Subway sandwich, y’all. I know [abortion] is a tough topic, I know some people feel like abortion is murder. They’re like if you want to kill kids, join the military and do it overseas like a decent American.”
Macaroni cites several hurdles that have knocked her back in her comedy career, including the pandemic and her anxiety. Which is unsurprising for someone who is a decade into a field dependent on putting yourself out there. Still, she maintains that having confidence and finding your audience is key.
“Especially as a woman of color trying to find your place in the world, and just realizing you’re not gonna be everybody’s cup of tea, but the people that fuck with you are like fucking with you,” she reflects. “And you just have to stay at it and find [your audience] and they will find you.”
Macaroni acknowledges that she still gets nervous before a set. But she combats that feeling by religiously showing up and getting onstage to perform, knowing that if she continues to do so, she can keep her self-doubt at bay by saying, “Shut the fuck up, bitch, go back in your corner, nobody needs you.”
Now, Macaroni has managed to climb to the top ranks of the Portland comedy scene. From approaching the death of loved ones to the duality and hypocrisy of life, she keeps her audiences on their toes, and in their feels.
“Some things are never funny, but we can still laugh about it,” she says. “I’m going to take the poison that was given to me, and I’m going to use it to help heal myself and heal other people in the process.”
Funniest thing She’s seen in Portland: Portlanders pretending to be progressive.