I’m sad thatTriumph has been arrested for being in the capitol after hours. I’m not a big fan of Robert Smeigel. I’ve enjoyed his work, and I think Triumph the Insult Comic Dog is a culturally significant part of American satire. But, if there was ever a kind of comedy I wish was-- I don’t know -- quieter-- it would be the kind of comedy that regularly uses the punchline “... for me to poop on!”
The truth is, I would prefer it if Triumph and Borat sat down with the kids from South Park and the Reverend Sir Dr. Stephen T. Mos Def Colbert had a healing circle.
Fantasy dissolve
The room is non-descript but tattered around the edges and has a quiet church-basement feel to it. There are 12 folding chairs set up in a ovaloid that does its best not to bump up to the file cabinets and the table holding the Mr. Coffee, non-dairy creamer, and 8 oz. white styrofoam cups.
Attendees are mulling about, but all come to sit together as the facilitator, a slightly doughy white guy in his early thirties, gently beats a small drum to call the meeting to order. He hands the ornately decorated birch stick he used to call the meeting to order to a boy wearing a blue winter cap and a red jacket. *
“My Name is Eric Cartman, and I am an antagonist in a satirical comedy series,” says the little boy hopping up on the folding chair nearest the facilitator and putting his legs straight out on the seat.
“Hello, Eric,” the group responds.
“I am here today because I am afraid I hurt people with my sardonic nature. The way my casual anti-semitism is taken as tacit permission to feel similarly by my fans embarrasses me, and I wish they would stop writing me that way.” Cartman pauses. The room is silent for a moment. Cartman looks as if he wants to say more. He looks at the birch stick, exhales, and then looks up at the room. “That’s it for today,” he says, swallowing.
The others in the room mutter in ascent and approval, and Cartman hands the stick to the man on his left.
The man is wearing a grey suit and has a wild mop of curly hair and a thick, long mustache. “My name is Borat Sadviyev, and I am a satirical fictional journalist.”
“Hello, Borat,” the group responds.
“My wife--” his voice cracks as he says it. He pauses and tries again, this time with a different, quieter inflection. “My wife asked me to come here. She says the things I say about her are hurtful, and she says the cruel way I treat her and other women give my fans the wrong impression of how funny and successful comedians feel about feminisim.”
Others in the room nod knowingly as Borat passes the birch stick to a well-coifed, smartly dressed man with a square jaw who is casually munching on a sack of pistachios.
“I’m Steve,” he says between chews. “I am here because the court ordered it. I made the mistake of believing that the American people can tell the difference between satire and actual politics.” He thrusts the stick over to the next man, who takes it gently. Steve crosses his arms and switches the knee he has his leg resting on. He continues to chew his most recent plug of pistachios.
“Jesus, Steve,” Tucker Carlson says. The facilitator raises a finger as if to interject, but Carlson waves him off with a nod of acquiescence. “I know, I know,” he says, “I appologize. Sorry, Steve.” he pauses, centers himself, takes a breath, and then gestures with the birch stick. “I’m Tucker.” he says.
“Hi Tucker.”
He frowns, closes his eyes for a moment, and then speaks: “It is sad to see Steve like this. He was one of the greats. His work gave meaning and fulfillment to so many people. Steve was the best consirvative that this nation --”
“Make sure you’re using I statements, Tucker,” the facilitator interjects.
Tucker catches himself and then speaks with over-exaggerated emphasis, “I feel …” -- he interjects an eye roll-- “that Steve is just lucky that he and his puppet dog stoolie weren’t held for a year and a half in solitary confinement without being charged.” The facilitator stands and gestures to the staff in the corner of the room. Tucker jumps up, and Steve springs to his feet and takes a defensive posture. The staff from the back of the room step in between Carlson and Steve, trying to keep either man from laying a hand on the other.
“I should never have agreed to this,” Steve shouts.
Carlson responds by increasing his volume. He shouts: “The precedent is in place. And how in the world can Adam Schiff, who spent the last year and a half eliminating the civil liberties of Trump voters on the basis of January 6, do the exact same thing and not face punishment?”
The men are escorted from the room through different doors.
The facilitator follows Carlson out and snatches the birch stick back from him. Through gritted teeth, he hisses, “Just like I said last time: the difference, Tucker Carlson, is that satire is protected speech, and lynching the sitting Vice President of the United States is not.”
Fantasy dissolves back to reality.
Carlson’s speech, also, is protected, I grant that. In my imagination, In a room consisting of Tucker Carlson, Borat, Steven Colbert, and Eric Cartman, Tucker Carlson has, far and away, caused the most damage to the American public. . If Tucker Carlson said these sorts of things on anything but the sketchiest news organization in the world, he’d have his platform taken away. Satire is powerful, dangerous, and requires great respect for its audience to be effective.
Conservative journalism is just noise and requires only our attention. It’s the lowest form of speech, the conservative troll. So long as we feed them with our attention, they will thrive. Our only solution is to deplatform them. They must be removed from public attention. And yes. I get the irony. It's tears in rai-ee-ain.
