Fortune Feimster loves a good misdirect. Her new Netflix hour, Good Fortune, starts like a classic engagement tale—candles, Champagne, a Big Sur ocean view—and promptly nosedives into damp fog, blown-away rose petals, and a panicked search for dry matches. “It looked less Bachelor and more crime scene,” she cracks, a line that sets the tone for 65 minutes of self-skewering joy. The special—directed by Manny Rodriguez and filmed at Chicago Shakespeare Theater—landed on the platform October 25 2022, giving Feimster her second shot at the coveted Netflix spotlight.

Feimster doesn’t just roast proposal mishaps; she folds every lucky break (and dodged bullet) into the set. There’s the North Carolina childhood where nobody clocked her as queer because she was too busy being “kid-who-eats-mayo-packets”; the years hustling through Hollywood casting calls that labeled her “funny friend, never the lead”; and, finally, the lightning moment she met TV producer Jacquelyn Smith, the woman she would later marry. That relationship anchors the special—Smith even pops up for a cameo alongside their bulldog Biggie, stealing the audience’s heart with one sloppy kiss.

Between punchlines, Feimster slips in unexpected tenderness. She talks about figuring out late-in-life lesbian dating, navigating pandemic wedding delays, and learning to let success land instead of waving it away with self-deprecation. The mix of rowdy storytelling and earned vulnerability is why critics keep calling her “comedy’s warm hug”—and why the special shot into Netflix’s Top 10 during opening week.

Still, the road to a second special wasn’t glamorous. Feimster taped Sweet & Salty in 2020, then spent two pandemic years honing fresh material in half-full clubs, driving herself to gigs, and rewriting jokes until the rhythm felt “like a Southern aunt gossiping over queso.” That grind shows: every tag hits, and her closer—about proposing with a fogged-out ocean view—sticks the landing like a gymnast who’s thrilled just to be on the mat. Good Fortune isn’t just another hour; it’s proof that queer stories can be loud, messy, and gloriously ordinary—and that’s exactly the laugh we need right now.