mad in pursuit journal


Age of Zingers

I'm tired of hearing about Don Imus but I can't help adding my two cents. We're being killed by cleverness — the ironic quip, the witty retort, the parody. Why is anyone surprised when a tease turns to tears?

Why is making fun of people — calling attention to their vulnerabilities — the dominant form of humor these days? I'm not saying I don't laugh. And I wish like hell I had the natural bada-bing of a jokester.

But the fuel for the engine of satire is anger. Everybody's mad at something or someone all the time but we're too busy, too afraid, too lazy to do anything about it except joke, keeping one another in a numb state of chuckling. Between the shock jocks and the speed-of-internet parodies, maybe whoever we're anger with can be bullied off the stage, will pick up their toys and go away crying.

Oops. Too bad the only ones feeling the death by a thousand cuts this week were the women athletes from Rutgers.


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