Something you should know about me: I am, deeply and sincerely, a sketch comedy nerd. It’s one of those art forms that scratches my brain in exactly the right place. What probably started with “The Muppet Show” eventually morphed into a lifelong special interest: I’ve seen every episode of “Saturday Night Live” at least once, can quote large swaths of “Portlandia” and “I Think You Should Leave” from memory and maintain — with the confidence of a person who has spent far too much time thinking about this — that “Kids in the Hall” remains the best sketch series Lorne Michaels has ever produced. (Yes, better than “SNL.” I said what I said.) I love watching comedians navigate that impossible little tightrope between structure and chaos: character work, timing, escalation, commitment and, ideally, a killer ending. From “Mr. Show” to “Key & Peele,” from “A Black Lady Sketch Show” to “A Bit of Fry and Laurie,” great sketch comedy feels a little like magic. And then, somewhat embarrassingly for a person who has now lived …