I am Satire. You might know me from ancient Greek plays, political cartoons, or that one uncle's email forwards that aren't quite funny but also aren't entirely serious. I am the pointed finger, the exaggerated truth, the mirror held up to absurdity until it cries uncle. And frankly, I’m exhausted. Absolutely, utterly knackered.
My existence used to be a delicate dance. A nuanced nudge. I’d take a sliver of reality, twist it ever so gently, and present it back to humanity, hoping for a chuckle of recognition, perhaps a pang of self-awareness. It was an art, requiring a deft hand and a discerning audience. Now? Now, reality just barges into my studio, throws on a clown wig, and starts juggling chainsaws while reciting corporate mission statements. My job is less about creation and more about simply... recording.
Take, for instance, this recent kerfuffle about the Browse gas field. "Reads like satire," they said. Oh, you think so? You think calling a massive fossil fuel project "clean" or "sustainable" or "essential for transition" when its very existence belches gigatons of carbon into the atmosphere *reads* like satire? My dear, that *is* satire. It's not *reading* like it; it's simply *being* it. I didn't even have to lift a quill. The PR department of whatever energy conglomerate is behind it did my work for me, gratis. They composed an entire opus of self-parody, and all I had to do was stand there, slack-jawed, muttering, "Well, I'll be damned."
I've watched as politicians debate whether water is wet, as billionaires propose colonizing Mars while Earth burns, and as industries responsible for ecological collapse greenwash their way to carbon neutrality, often using more carbon in the process. Each day, I wake up, rub the sleep from my metaphorical eyes, and find that humanity has once again outdone itself in manufacturing scenarios so inherently ludicrous, so utterly devoid of logic or self-preservation, that any attempt I make to lampoon them feels redundant. What's the point of exaggerating when the unvarnished truth is already performing stand-up at the apocalypse's open mic night?
My legacy is at stake. If everything is satire, then nothing is. I fear I'm becoming obsolete, a forgotten tool in an era where the absurd has become the mundane. I long for the days when I had to *invent* a dictator who demanded the sea be whipped for disobeying his commands. Now, I just need to open Twitter. So please, I beg of you, just for a little while, stop creating realities that "read like satire." Give me back my job. Give me something to *work* with, some kernel of sanity I can twist. Or, at the very least, acknowledge that when you say something "reads like satire," you're really just admitting you've finally noticed the emperor is not only naked but also wearing a ridiculously oversized top hat made of melting ice caps.
