From Stage King to Comedy Cop: The Untold Drama of John Mulrooney

Olivia Bennett, 1/2/2026Brooklyn's John Mulrooney, a charismatic and fearless comic, captivated audiences with his improvisational brilliance. His journey from stand-up titan to police officer illustrates a relentless creativity and spirit, leaving behind a legacy of laughter that resonates long after his final bow.

Andrew Dice Clay, whose own bravado rarely leaves room for sentiment, remembers the way club owners at Pips nudged him: “Marty and Seth told me to watch him. He was really amazing at it.” That wasn’t small praise. Mulrooney, tall, rugged, carrying a boxer’s discipline (and perhaps a few of those amateur bruises), worked with a determination bordering on the ruthless. The drive? Unmistakable. The want—palpable. Every other comedian knew it; stardom was always glimmering just out of reach for most.

Yet comedy is a roulette table more than a meritocracy, and for every lucky player cashing out as a household name, a few haunted the fringes. Mulrooney, curiously, was both—a destroyer of rooms who could light up a crowd or leave even seasoned stars fumbling to follow him. Adam Sandler’s voice catches a trace of awe: “Mulrooney would just destroy a room. He was so loose and could dominate the room.” No YouTube montage or TikTok algorithm can quite pin down his magic, but it’s tempting to imagine him today, riffing off a sea of ring-lit faces with quips that shift gears on a dime.

He once likened the audience to a spice rack—knowing there’d be a meal, never quite sure of the ingredients. That, some might say, was part of the enduring Mulrooney mystique: every act a high-wire experiment, every set a dish flavored on the fly. Yes, crowd work is having a moment in 2025, but long before openers spun awkward banter into viral soundbytes, Mulrooney made improvisation look like a contact sport.

Despite all of the above, the closest Mulrooney came to mainstream blitz was a bittersweet brush—a brief fill-in for Joan Rivers on Fox’s Late Show. Within months, the show dissolved; for a career that seemed built for momentum, there was always a sense of being one door shy of the inner sanctum. The pattern repeated—Comic Strip: Live, late-night quiz jaunts, Comedy Central’s Midtown North with its frantic charm. Even popped up alongside Dennis Quaid in Great Balls of Fire! because, well, why not?

It’s worth pausing on the era—TV in the late ‘80s and early ‘90s thrived on chaos, favoring cult favorites rather than overproduced juggernauts. Mulrooney, never quite ready to slip quietly into reruns, took on HBO, Showtime, A&E, whatever called. People said he was always one big break away; perhaps that was the bittersweet glue binding his reputation. Big enough to be revered, just elusive enough to be mythic.

Still, the comedic fire refused to go out. Radio dials became his new playground. The early risers found him—WPYX, WPDH, and later, the gloriously ramshackle “Mulrooney in the Morning” on iHeartRadio. Talk about reinvention; at a time when most are daydreaming about a permanent vacation, Mulrooney was still hustling, still smoothing New York’s rough edges.

Then, in a twist no writer’s room could properly sell, he ditched the mic for a badge at 52. No, it’s not a rejected NBC pilot (though some tried—“Comedy Cop” was, in fact, attempted as a reality show). Coxsackie, NY, suddenly had a comedic ex-boxer walking the beat. The transition? As unlikely as it sounds, surprisingly fitting. For Mulrooney, every street, every silent early-morning sidewalk, became a sort of stage, waiting for its punchline.

The tributes, now rolling in, sprawl wild—much like his legacy. Fellow comics, old fans, radio regulars—they remember the hustle, the packed houses, the sharp resilience. “He never gave up, he never stopped trying, which is what it’s all about in my book,” Dice Clay mused, a sentiment buffeted by hints of both admiration and what-could-have-been.

As for the farewell, there’s a peculiar poetry. Casey Funeral Home on Staten Island for visitation, then the Church of the Holy Family for the final sendoff. Instead of flowers, donations to St. Jude. Such details matter; they hint at the man beneath the one-liners—the boxer’s heart, the performer’s generosity, the everyman’s empathy.

Looking back, Mulrooney’s career defies neat retelling. Stand-up titan, radio wildchild, periodic sitcom wanderer, local cop. Each act speaks to a restless creativity, a refusal to accept the slow fade so many entertainers embrace when the applause softens. Maybe that’s his finest joke—dodging labels even now, slipping past clichés with a half-smirk.

So here we are, early 2025. So many stages quieter, so many barstools missing a regular, so many listeners switching off a dial, just a little bit lonelier than before. But somewhere, or so one likes to imagine, Mulrooney is still riffing, still hunting for that sublime audience reaction—a harmony of unpredictability, grit, and joy, right out at the edge of laughter.

Brooklyn, never exactly short on character, has lost one of its most indelible. John Mulrooney’s story flickers out at 67—not quite as a thunderclap, but with the sort of low, reverberating note that hangs in the city air. Think of a performer who didn’t simply enter the comedy scene. Rather, he all but exploded onto it, dropping into the notorious haunts—The Improv, The Comedy Store, The Laugh Factory—like someone who’d forgotten the meaning of the word “hesitation.” Even Brooklyn’s storied Pips, where comics cut their teeth sharp enough to draw blood, bore the imprint of his late-night surges.Andrew Dice Clay, whose own bravado rarely leaves room for sentiment, remembers the way club owners at Pips nudged him: “Marty and Seth told me to watch him. He was really amazing at it.” That wasn’t small praise. Mulrooney, tall, rugged, carrying a boxer’s discipline (and perhaps a few of those amateur bruises), worked with a determination bordering on the ruthless. The drive? Unmistakable. The want—palpable. Every other comedian knew it; stardom was always glimmering just out of reach for most.Yet comedy is a roulette table more than a meritocracy, and for every lucky player cashing out as a household name, a few haunted the fringes. Mulrooney, curiously, was both—a destroyer of rooms who could light up a crowd or leave even seasoned stars fumbling to follow him. Adam Sandler’s voice catches a trace of awe: “Mulrooney would just destroy a room. He was so loose and could dominate the room.” No YouTube montage or TikTok algorithm can quite pin down his magic, but it’s tempting to imagine him today, riffing off a sea of ring-lit faces with quips that shift gears on a dime.He once likened the audience to a spice rack—knowing there’d be a meal, never quite sure of the ingredients. That, some might say, was part of the enduring Mulrooney mystique: every act a high-wire experiment, every set a dish flavored on the fly. Yes, crowd work is having a moment in 2025, but long before openers spun awkward banter into viral soundbytes, Mulrooney made improvisation look like a contact sport.Despite all of the above, the closest Mulrooney came to mainstream blitz was a bittersweet brush—a brief fill-in for Joan Rivers on Fox’s Late Show. Within months, the show dissolved; for a career that seemed built for momentum, there was always a sense of being one door shy of the inner sanctum. The pattern repeated—Comic Strip: Live, late-night quiz jaunts, Comedy Central’s Midtown North with its frantic charm. Even popped up alongside Dennis Quaid in Great Balls of Fire! because, well, why not?It’s worth pausing on the era—TV in the late ‘80s and early ‘90s thrived on chaos, favoring cult favorites rather than overproduced juggernauts. Mulrooney, never quite ready to slip quietly into reruns, took on HBO, Showtime, A&E, whatever called. People said he was always one big break away; perhaps that was the bittersweet glue binding his reputation. Big enough to be revered, just elusive enough to be mythic.Still, the comedic fire refused to go out. Radio dials became his new playground. The early risers found him—WPYX, WPDH, and later, the gloriously ramshackle “Mulrooney in the Morning” on iHeartRadio. Talk about reinvention; at a time when most are daydreaming about a permanent vacation, Mulrooney was still hustling, still smoothing New York’s rough edges.Then, in a twist no writer’s room could properly sell, he ditched the mic for a badge at 52. No, it’s not a rejected NBC pilot (though some tried—“Comedy Cop” was, in fact, attempted as a reality show). Coxsackie, NY, suddenly had a comedic ex-boxer walking the beat. The transition? As unlikely as it sounds, surprisingly fitting. For Mulrooney, every street, every silent early-morning sidewalk, became a sort of stage, waiting for its punchline.The tributes, now rolling in, sprawl wild—much like his legacy. Fellow comics, old fans, radio regulars—they remember the hustle, the packed houses, the sharp resilience. “He never gave up, he never stopped trying, which is what it’s all about in my book,” Dice Clay mused, a sentiment buffeted by hints of both admiration and what-could-have-been.As for the farewell, there’s a peculiar poetry. Casey Funeral Home on Staten Island for visitation, then the Church of the Holy Family for the final sendoff. Instead of flowers, donations to St. Jude. Such details matter; they hint at the man beneath the one-liners—the boxer’s heart, the performer’s generosity, the everyman’s empathy.Looking back, Mulrooney’s career defies neat retelling. Stand-up titan, radio wildchild, periodic sitcom wanderer, local cop. Each act speaks to a restless creativity, a refusal to accept the slow fade so many entertainers embrace when the applause softens. Maybe that’s his finest joke—dodging labels even now, slipping past clichés with a half-smirk.So here we are, early 2025. So many stages quieter, so many barstools missing a regular, so many listeners switching off a dial, just a little bit lonelier than before. But somewhere, or so one likes to imagine, Mulrooney is still riffing, still hunting for that sublime audience reaction—a harmony of unpredictability, grit, and joy, right out at the edge of laughter.