QUIZ: WHICH ONE IS THE ZOMBIE?
ZOMBIE NIGHTS - Part I
Zombie Says No More Satire!
I was so engrossed in writing a spoof of what Obama heard when he was wiretapping Trump’s phone – so engrossed in fact that I didn’t hear the Zombie come in. But I sure heard the shout. Right in my ear:
“Stop. No more satire.” Simultaneously the Zombie reached over to press CTRL A and DELETE. “No more satire.”
“You can’t do that” I screamed, desperately trying to push Ctrl Z.
“Orders,” the Zombie replied. ”From the highest authorities in the lowest depths. No more satire. You gotta stop. “
“Why? It’s just good clean scatological fun. And it’s therapeutic. A lot of people need some release - some distance on what’s happening to our democracy. Satire is cathartic in a situation like this.”
“Maybe fun but it’s not therapeutic. Very bad for you and for your readers, if you have any.”
“Nonsense,” I insisted. “I’m carrying on a grand tradition following the example set by many of your associates down below. You have probably met them - Jonathan Swift, Voltaire, Juvenal, Horace, even old Aristophanes.”
“Wrong again! They were all tools of the establishment, providing a way of venting steam before it turned into an explosion. Look at Juvenal: he serves the Roman elite. The problems sees are ascribed to the Orontes pouring into the Tiber. He’d love Tr*mp’s anti-immigration policy.”
“But somebody has got to expose the absurd nonsense that he spews out.”
‘You are overlooking the core dilemma in satire, young man. It implies that everyone is doing rotten things, So the obvious question is “Why shouldn’t I do them too?” When you write satire, you may make Trump’s atrocities seem routine, ordinary, even normal. Don’t go there. That is one reason we are telling you to stop.”
“What’s the other reason?”
“You are not very good at it. Leave it to Maureen Dowd or Gail Collins. Even if you were as good as they are, you’d still be making things worse, feeding his ego and helping him take over people’s brains. Look what’s happened to you, for example. ”
“What do you mean by that?”
“He has colonized your brain. Instead of thinking about sex 24,7, 52, like you did in the good old days, you think Tr*mp, Tr*mp, Tr*mp. All the time. Non-stop. Here you are: ten years out of college, still in this shabby garret, all alone, trying to make a living writing satire. Get a life!”
That, hurt; I got real angry and told the Zombie in no uncertain terms to get out. That did no good. I got more of the same: “You are playing right into his hands ... ” WHOA! The word “hands” seemed to have a powerful effect on Zombies. Never use it when you are near one. In this case the left Zombie hand started unbuttoning my shirt; the right one groped at my belt buckle.
“Hey,” I said,, ”Cut that out. Right now. Stop.. Let me go. Get out of here. .”
“You see,.” the Zombie responded. “I was right. He has destroyed your libido. All you can think about is Tr*mp, Tr*mp, Tr*mp. This Tr*mp talk is ruining your sex life.. Just like I said.”
“Get out..”
“I won’t leave until you promise to stop writ9ing satire.”
“OK, OK,” I said. ”Tell ,e what I should be doing and then, leave, please leave. Pretty please leave. ”
“Go out and listen to some Tr*mp supporters. Listen real hard how they talk. Learn from them. I’ll be back in a week’s time, Friday at the stroke of midnight, to see what you have found.”
And with that she slithered out between door and threshold, just as the clock struck midnight.
ZOMBIE NIGHTS - Part I
Zombie Says No More Satire!
I was so engrossed in writing a spoof of what Obama heard when he was wiretapping Trump’s phone – so engrossed in fact that I didn’t hear the Zombie come in. But I sure heard the shout. Right in my ear:
“Stop. No more satire.” Simultaneously the Zombie reached over to press CTRL A and DELETE. “No more satire.”
“You can’t do that” I screamed, desperately trying to push Ctrl Z.
“Orders,” the Zombie replied. ”From the highest authorities in the lowest depths. No more satire. You gotta stop. “
“Why? It’s just good clean scatological fun. And it’s therapeutic. A lot of people need some release - some distance on what’s happening to our democracy. Satire is cathartic in a situation like this.”
“Maybe fun but it’s not therapeutic. Very bad for you and for your readers, if you have any.”
“Nonsense,” I insisted. “I’m carrying on a grand tradition following the example set by many of your associates down below. You have probably met them - Jonathan Swift, Voltaire, Juvenal, Horace, even old Aristophanes.”
“Wrong again! They were all tools of the establishment, providing a way of venting steam before it turned into an explosion. Look at Juvenal: he serves the Roman elite. The problems sees are ascribed to the Orontes pouring into the Tiber. He’d love Tr*mp’s anti-immigration policy.”
“But somebody has got to expose the absurd nonsense that he spews out.”
‘You are overlooking the core dilemma in satire, young man. It implies that everyone is doing rotten things, So the obvious question is “Why shouldn’t I do them too?” When you write satire, you may make Trump’s atrocities seem routine, ordinary, even normal. Don’t go there. That is one reason we are telling you to stop.”
“What’s the other reason?”
“You are not very good at it. Leave it to Maureen Dowd or Gail Collins. Even if you were as good as they are, you’d still be making things worse, feeding his ego and helping him take over people’s brains. Look what’s happened to you, for example. ”
“What do you mean by that?”
“He has colonized your brain. Instead of thinking about sex 24,7, 52, like you did in the good old days, you think Tr*mp, Tr*mp, Tr*mp. All the time. Non-stop. Here you are: ten years out of college, still in this shabby garret, all alone, trying to make a living writing satire. Get a life!”
That, hurt; I got real angry and told the Zombie in no uncertain terms to get out. That did no good. I got more of the same: “You are playing right into his hands ... ” WHOA! The word “hands” seemed to have a powerful effect on Zombies. Never use it when you are near one. In this case the left Zombie hand started unbuttoning my shirt; the right one groped at my belt buckle.
“Hey,” I said,, ”Cut that out. Right now. Stop.. Let me go. Get out of here. .”
“You see,.” the Zombie responded. “I was right. He has destroyed your libido. All you can think about is Tr*mp, Tr*mp, Tr*mp. This Tr*mp talk is ruining your sex life.. Just like I said.”
“Get out..”
“I won’t leave until you promise to stop writ9ing satire.”
“OK, OK,” I said. ”Tell ,e what I should be doing and then, leave, please leave. Pretty please leave. ”
“Go out and listen to some Tr*mp supporters. Listen real hard how they talk. Learn from them. I’ll be back in a week’s time, Friday at the stroke of midnight, to see what you have found.”
And with that she slithered out between door and threshold, just as the clock struck midnight.
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