The band kept the groove lo-fi, the crowd restless. Then came Chad Olshavsky — ChadO — taking that familiar step into the fire for his third round on Kill Tony.
The panel that night was stacked: Gabriel “Fluffy” Iglesias, Sal Vulcano, Tony Hinchcliffe in the throne, and Brian Redban running sound and snark from the corner. A comedian walking into that lineup either makes a mark or gets buried.
For ChadO, it wasn’t just another night in Austin. Fluffy was one of the first comics he ever watched with April, back before fame hit, back when late-night cable specials still felt like an event. And Sal Vulcano, the face of Impractical Jokers, wasn’t just a guest. He was a fixture in the Olshavsky household. The family had watched that show religiously through every stretch of life — laughter echoing through hard nights, hospital visits, and everything in between. When loss or grief came knocking, comedy was the constant, and Sal and the gang were part of the medicine. Standing across from both of them felt like a full-circle moment — the student suddenly in front of the masters who unknowingly helped him get here.
ChadO leaned into the mic and did his minute, a flash of uneasy laughter, blunt truth, and strange tenderness. His material has never been about easy laughs; it’s the kind that makes people pause before they decide whether to clap or wince. When Tony asked what he does, ChadO didn’t hesitate. “I’m a writer,” he said.
He mentioned his illustrated series, Stevie J — not for kids, not for comfort. The crowd stirred. The panel listened. And just like that, his two worlds — the stage and the page — collided.
Moments later, Heidi walked out carrying a stack of the Stevie J books. For a brief beat, the room shifted. Fluffy flipped through the pages. Sal smirked with genuine interest. Tony leaned forward. Everyone held a book. It wasn’t a punchline anymore; it was proof of work.
Redban lobbed the first grenade. “That must be AI.” ChadO didn’t flinch. “Yeah. AI and Photoshop.”
That single suggestion became the spark that split the online comments. Some praised the honesty. Others came swinging about “real artists.” What they missed was the context: this wasn’t a plug-and-play project. It was built by hand, word by word, by a dyslexic writer who refuses to let letters win, and by a wife who spent nights layering expressions, brushstrokes, and edits until his jokes could breathe on paper.
For ChadO, the book stack wasn’t marketing. It was survival. He didn’t get to talk about the stories behind the books or the material that inspired them — the stand-up born from family connections, near misses, and the weirdness of suburban life. He didn’t do the set he wanted. The interview wrapped faster than he’d hoped.
But he did it. He stood on that stage, looked at millions of viewers’ worth of pressure, and spoke his truth without blinking. That’s what people forget about Kill Tony: it’s not a safe room. Every stumble, every hesitation, every nervous glance gets immortalized. Still, he put his name and his work in front of 2.6 million viewers, and counting. That’s no small thing.
ChadO’s never chased perfection. He chases the next chance. One hundred seventy signups. One thousand twenty open mics. Five thousand one hundred minutes. Each one a small act of defiance. He’s dyslexic. He’s fought illness, bills, fatigue. But he keeps building — with words, with jokes, with whatever’s left in the tank. The Stevie J books started as sketches of stand-up ideas, then turned into a way to outlive the stage. They’re suburban fever dreams about marriage, temptation, and the things people whisper about when they think no one’s listening. They’re funny, a little dangerous, and unmistakably his.
“This was my third appearance. I know I can do better and will, but I’m grateful for the opportunity to show some of my books and grow as a comedian,” ChadO said after the show. “One hundred seventy signups, one thousand twenty open mics, five thousand one hundred minutes — all brought me to this. It wasn’t the best I could’ve done, and I will do better. But I want to thank the Kill Tony show for getting me into stand-up, encouraging my art, and driving me to do better. The Stevie J not-for-kids books were inspired by my comedy, a way to create something beyond the mic. I wouldn’t have done either without this show and all it does. Thank you April Olshavsky for the support and for helping create the books. Best damn publisher in comedy.”
He didn’t say everything he wanted. The jokes didn’t all land. The silence after the broadcast hit harder than expected. But he stood there, knowing every move would be dissected. That’s not defeat. That’s what it looks like when someone keeps going. Because in the end, the hardest part isn’t writing the joke — it’s walking back into the light and doing it again.
Once the episode aired, the reaction came fast — and loud. Some corners of social media fixated on a single line: “That must be AI.” What started as Redban tossing out a quick quip turned into a full-blown debate.
April later said Redban “knew exactly what he was unleashing” with that comment — that as someone who practically lives online, he understood the kind of storm it would spark. She wasn’t wrong. Within hours, Reddit threads and comment sections filled with people arguing over whether AI should ever be used in books.
Some called ChadO’s openness refreshing. Others threw punches about “hiring a real artist.” The conversation quickly shifted away from the heart of the project — a collaboration between a dyslexic writer and a seasoned designer — and became a debate about technology instead of creativity.
The irony, of course, is that a real artist was there all along. The Stevie J books weren’t machine-made. They were built from scratch, from storyboards, Photoshop layers, mixed-media digital painting, and April’s three decades of graphic design work. Every expression, background, and color choice was intentionally crafted. The technology was just one more brush in her toolkit.
But inside the comedy community, the tone was different. Comics reached out. They praised ChadO for getting up there, for doing the work, for showing up. They reminded him that standing on that stage under those lights is never easy — and that no matter how rough a minute feels, the fact that he did it means something. That’s the brotherhood of stand-up: the unspoken rule that you earn your bruises in public, and your peers respect you for it.
The minute itself got mixed reviews. Some fans said it was totally on brand — the strange family themes, the sideways jokes about race and relationships, the sharp turns between honesty and absurdity. Others said it felt familiar, maybe recycled. But they were still talking about it — about the writing, about the performance, about where it all goes next.
And that’s the point. People talked. They engaged. They argued. They cared enough to react.
For ChadO, that’s the best kind of feedback , the kind that keeps him moving toward the next version of himself, the better version. The one who learns from the noise, then walks right back into it.
A darkly funny look at suburban life through Stevie J’s wildly cracked lens.
Buy on AmazonDisclaimer:
All Kill Tony screenshots, clips, and images referenced or displayed in this article are the property of their respective copyright owners. We do not claim ownership or rights to any Kill Tony content. All materials are used for commentary and review purposes only under fair use.
