Self-writing satire

One of the problems in today’s world is that satire writes itself. Who would believe we have a congress that fought for days over whether the candidate for speaker of the house was enough of a fascist to be the leader? Who would believe that we have a new member of congress who lied about everything on his resume and falsified his campaign finance records by including scores of items that cost $199.99 so he wouldn’t have to provide receipts (which are required for expenditures of $200 or more)? Who would have believed that we had a president who literally wrapped himself in the flag and for whom the media kept a daily tally of his lies, which numbered into the tens of thousands during his term in office?

Thank dog we have Alexandra Petri of the Washington Post who still manages to satirize this; though commenters on her articles are frequently incensed because they can’t figure out it’s satire.

A new (to me) magazine arrived in the mail. It included restaurant reviews, among them a sushi restaurant in New York where the cost of a meal is $646 and the review notes “a no-choices tasting menu may well include a bowlful of fish semen.” The jokes write themselves. And a restaurant in California that is now considered passé, though dinner for two costs $700 and reservations are still so hard to get that they sell on the secondary market (like ticket scalpers) for $1000. As Yogi Berra said (though he wasn’t the first), “Nobody goes there anymore. It’s too crowded.” The reviewer notes they ordered “truffle mac and cheese for an extra $125 [and] our reward was hard noodles sitting in a watery Parmesan sauce.”

Sometimes I’m happy to be a midwestern hick. Okay, make that all the times.