Somewhere in Germany. He would rather not say where.
Short comedy, delivered deadpan: sketches, voice notes and one-liners from a man who finds your enthusiasm exhausting.
Günter Zühlsdorf is not a real person. He is a character: middle-aged, immovable, dressed for weather that has not arrived yet, and permanently unimpressed by the speed at which everyone else lives. He exists in roughly forty seconds at a time, which is the only length of comedy anybody finishes on a phone.
The work behind him is simple and old-fashioned. Somebody writes a line. Somebody else says it out loud in a kitchen to see whether it survives being said out loud. If it survives, it gets recorded in character — same voice, same pauses, same refusal to laugh at his own joke. If it does not survive, it is thrown away, and most of them are thrown away. That is the whole method. There is no algorithm in it.
Four things, and they are all built to be forwarded rather than watched politely:
Loud comedy ages in a week. Deadpan ages slowly, travels across languages, and survives being watched with the sound off — which is how most of it will be watched. Günter never winks. He never explains. He says the thing, waits exactly a beat too long, and the beat is the joke.
Mostly three kinds of people: someone who wants a voice message made for a specific occasion, someone who wants a run of sketches for a campaign and needs them written in character rather than bolted on, and someone who wants stickers or a short series under their own brief. Whichever you are, the first conversation is about what the thing is for and how long it needs to be. The jokes come after that.
Every line is recorded in Günter's voice, with his timing. No stitching together old takes, no text-to-speech standing in for him.
Vertical, one idea per clip, the punchline placed where people still watching will find it. Subtitled, because the sound is usually off.
Scripts go out first and get approved first. Nothing is recorded on the hope that it will be funny on the day.
Three expressions, cropped for a keyboard, readable at the size a sticker is really seen. Delivered as files you own, ready for the usual sticker formats.
One push a day, written like a message from a man who did not ask how you are. Skippable, muteable, never two in a row.
Pick the closest one — scope and timing are worked out in the first exchange.
One recorded message in Günter's voice, for a birthday, a goodbye, a resignation or a Tuesday.
A run of short vertical sketches on one theme, written as a set so they stack rather than repeat.
His face, his shrug, his sigh — drawn and cropped for keyboards and group chats.
A written run of short lines scheduled across the week, for an app, a channel or a notification slot.
He turns up in your campaign and remains entirely himself, which is the point of booking him.
Everything is written, voiced and delivered in character. Nothing is recorded before the script is agreed.
A quiet room, a good microphone, and a man who refuses to be hurried.
Occasion, audience, format, and how long it should be. A sentence is enough to start with.
Usually two or three: who is it aimed at, what must not be said, and where it will be posted or sent.
You read the lines before anything is recorded, and you can cut the ones that do not fit. Nothing goes in front of a microphone unapproved.
Günter does it his way: flat, unhurried, one beat too long. Takes are kept until the timing is right.
Audio, vertical video with subtitles, or sticker exports — in the sizes you actually need, ready to post or send.
A voice message, a series, a sticker set or something you have not described yet — start here.
Someone will get in touch shortly — likely with two questions and one joke that does not land.
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