I usually put on long podcasts or videos when I hop on the treadmill at the gym. I’ve saved hundreds of clips I swear I’ll watch later, but my own algorithm keeps serving up fresh versions of everything and I end up right back at square one. That’s how I stumbled on a video that brings together two legends: Franco Escamilla and Adrián Nario—better known to all of us as El Bananero. Beyond recommending the interview itself, I want to highlight one big takeaway: neither of them can fully monetize their content. Sure, their humor isn’t for everyone, yet they’re artists who hand out laughter.

Take El Bananero, for example. He was making videos even before YouTube existed; today he’s an internet-culture icon in the Spanish-speaking world. I’d bet—at the risk of being wrong—that eight out of ten Latin American men know who “El Bana” is. Humor is a social tool: when we laugh, hope and quality of life go up, no matter what the economic indicators say.

So today I want to make the case that comedians should adopt value-for-value (V4V) networks, because they offer a surprisingly accessible revenue path and act as an anti-exclusion lifeline. I’ll use three comedians who’ve made a difference—at least in my life—to prove the point: John Oliver, Franco Escamilla, and El Bananero.

I used to wait every Wednesday for this irreverent HBO show (it aired Sundays in the U.S., but reached my country mid-week). By the time I watched it, the ripple effect was already in full swing. My top three moments—no particular order:

The inevitable legal sharks went after HBO, but the network is lawyered-up and hard to censor. Still, the show itself earns only pennies per view—even with millions of clicks.

Why? Political satire is flagged by the algorithm as “current-events content,” which scores a CPM of roughly $2–$8. After YouTube’s 45 % cut, the creator nets $1–$5 per thousand views. Imagine: a show that makes you laugh and tackles real-time issues can’t make a living off its own impact.

Another top-tier example: the episode on medical debt and predatory debt collectors. Oliver urged viewers to help organizations like Medical Debt Relief—and they raised $15 million, wiping out debts of the same size. Or when he exposed Miss America’s inflated donation claims and told people to give straight to the Society of Women Engineers: $25,000 in a week, a ten-fold jump.

The lesson? Audiences will pay for value—but YouTube blocks the flow and takes its slice.

Not really. Latin America has been blending serious issues with humor long before John Oliver. Remember the 2001 interview where Sub-Comandante Marcos was questioned by Ponchito, the clown-nose character of Andrés Bustamante? Picture it: a guerrilla leader negotiating with Vicente Fox’s government while chatting with a “child” on national TV.

A comedian did what political journalism couldn’t: turned a tense negotiation into a shared smile. At one point Ponchito asks if being a guerrilla fighter is profitable, and Marcos replies that revolution is “free—but expensive.” In the middle of misery, humor became a beacon. Televisa cashed in with flashy ads, the audience laughed, and the show rolled on.

Payment to Bustamante or Marcos? Zero pesos.

“Okay,” you might say, “but now creators get paid.” Think again. While everyone grabs a slice of the pizza, the comedian ends up with crumbs. Hootsuite’s numbers show that “family-friendly” channels get a $5–$15 CPM. Adult humor? $1–$3, because advertisers shy away.

Even if you go viral, remember YouTube’s cut. So Latin American comics survive on tours, merch, and sponsorships; YouTube or Spotify are just billboards for attention.

Franco pulls in roughly $6,600–$9,000 a month from his subscriber base—loose change compared to a single sold-out show. To monetize fame, he relies on paid podcasts, merch sites, and sponsorship deals. YouTube is only a trailer house, never the main gig.

The internet bows to Adrián Nario. His hyper-sexual parodies became almost mythic before YouTube took off. I remember sharing his clips over infrared back in the day. Once YouTube grew up, El Bana’s main channel got axed, and every upload is now demonetized or age-restricted—and, yes, it’s adult. With no alternatives back then, he hosted videos on his own site and turned a “costly hobby” (his words) into revenue through live shows, a personal beer brand, and other hustles because the platforms shut him out.

YouTube fears the Adpocalypse, and rightly so: the more taboos you smash, the less advertiser-friendly you look, the worse your placement and income. Audiences watch free because they’ve never had to pay. The fallout? Comics soften their edge and morph into sponsored influencers—self-censorship and “safe” jokes return.

Popularized by the No Agenda podcast, value-for-value cuts out centralized platforms. Using Lightning Network, I can shoot micro-payments in satoshis every time a Trailerazo cracks me up or Franco drops a killer monologue. V4V means no platform fees, no demonetization risk: the audience hands you cash directly. It works in any video player or website.

And the tech is alive and kicking. Dear Bana and Franco, here’s the path: download a Lightning wallet like Alby, Blink, or Wallet of Satoshi. Hook up Alby’s built-in “zap” plug-in—done. No KYC, no wait times. Musicians on Wavlake already earn more than on Spotify this way¹.

On YouTube you can pin your invoice in the top comment; on TikTok, splash a QR at the end; in podcasts, do what @lunaticoin does and read out the biggest donors. A tip becomes part of the show. Stacker News has a buzzing community where articles and jokes can be boosted with “zaps.” When readers up-vote, revenue flows to the post. One more revenue stream, one more way to keep doing what you love.

Your audiences embraced piracy long before Snapchat or whatever else came along. Imagine giving them the chance to send you 100 sats (about $0.01 right now) every time “John Salchichón” makes them choke with laughter. It won’t make you a billionaire, but it sustains your craft. Ten thousand loyal fans doing that beats any RPM YouTube is denying you.

Franco, picture live zaps during La Mesa Reñoña—1,000-sat “bolsas” fueling the monologue. New stand-up comics could crowd-fund a first tour via zap presales. V4V needs no labels, no CPM, no permissions—just the age-old rule: if you do good, invite people to pay what they think it’s worth. Smiles and lightning-fast payments travel at the same speed.

Humor and trust are the same business: the king hushes up to hear the jester. John Oliver moves laughs and policy; Marcos and Ponchito sparked dialogue; El Bananero survives censorship. Lightning, Nostr, and V4V already hand you the keys.

Will you keep begging a broken platform, or invite your crowd to fund the laughter with satoshis? The first to jump will turn their community into co-producers—each satoshi is a vote saying “keep it up.” Humor becomes civic power. Let’s hope these comedians realize V4V can pay the bills and set the stage for comedy’s next act.

Demonetize YouTube. Dear audience, play your part. Dear comedians, play yours.