Who Killed Sarcasm?
We’re trapped in an era of sincerity. Let us out!
Illustration by Alex Eben Meyer.
Bring back Sarcasm. It’s really quite refreshing.
Is there anything more boring than somebody banging on in endless
detail about a TV show you have yet to see? An old pal was bending my
ear recently with descriptions of some new low-brow reality-show
obsession. One particular character had caught his attention: When he
described her as “a blousy, braying, tackily dressed plastic surgery
victim,” I simply could not resist. “Must be like looking into a
mirror,” I said, with a concerned look.
The TV enthusiast winced visibly and strode off. He was later heard
telling pals that I had been “hating” on him. Suddenly I felt a chill
wind. Could it be that sarcasm, one of the greatest achievements of
mankind—or “unkind” as I prefer to call it—is in danger of extinction?
From the Greek sarkasmos, meaning to sneer at or taunt (and
derived from a term for rending the flesh), sarcasm is one of the
building blocks of civilization. The ability to express an unwelcome
observation in a wickedly passive-aggressive manner is, at the very
least, a great alternative to old-fashioned fisticuffs, or rape ‘n’
pillage. When I think about those ancient Greeks and the carte blanche
they enjoyed to say horrid things to one another, I get quite jealous.
For example: If you were strolling through downtown Thebes and you ran
into a pal who was looking particularly soiled and unkempt, you might
say, “Going somewhere special?” to which the other Greek might
good-naturedly reply, “Oh! You and your flesh-rending ironic
observations!” It’s sad to think that such a remark would, in our
squishy and oversensitive age, be met with accusations of “hating.”
If sarcasm is dying—it’s now such a rare commodity that when the
Republicans decided to insert a little snark into last week’s
proceedings, they were obliged to exhume an octogenarian entertainer,
hello!—what, pray, will become of the little children of today? Sardonic
irony is as critical to healthy child development as vitamins and
tick-checks. Raising your brats on an exclusive diet of sincerity is a
recipe for disaster. The current mania for relentless positivity and
self-esteem building leaves me convinced that we are in real danger of
turning out an entire generation of inspirational speakers.
I am happy to say that I was barraged with sarcasm during my
formative years. My teachers specialized in subtle-but-withering verbal
assaults. Many incidents spring to mind: After jackhammering my way
through an entire page of Ulysses
in a robotic monotone—how was I supposed to know that James Joyce
expected the reader to insert the lilts, pauses, and commas
intuitively?—my English teacher announced that he was overcome by the
“sensitivity” of my reading and would need to “nip out for a fag” in
order to compose himself. While the entire class roared with laughter, I
flinched and cringed. But I eventually recovered. Better to be verbally
humiliated than whacked upside the head, an outcome that was also on
offer, and the benefits of which will doubtless be the subject of some
future column.
My home life, I am happy to report, was equally sarcasm-riddled and
sincerity-free. When I began to embrace the satins and velvets of glam
rock, my parents began pointedly tracking the movements of any traveling
circuses and keeping me posted on their whereabouts.
Pops and Mamma saved their best sarcasm for each other, often after
drinking vats of homemade sloe gin. Like many dudes of his generation,
my dad had a tendency to treat his kids, the fruit of his loins, like
some random encumbrance that fate had been seen fit to inflict upon him.
My mum was quick to nip this line of thinking in the bud with a little
gin-fueled faux-gratitude: “It really was so good of you to take me in
off the street, especially with these two children in tow. Have I ever
thanked you formally?”
The magic of sarcasm finds exquisite illustration in a naughty new book titled Dear Lupin … Letters to a Wayward Son.
English upper class ne’er-do-well Charlie Mortimer wisely saved the
lifelong correspondence he had received from his unflaggingly sardonic
writer dad Roger Mortimer, and has now compiled it into a thigh-slapping
mini-tome.
The amount of sarcasm in père Mortimer’s letters increases as son Charlie’s life disintegrates. After getting thrown out of Eton and then deserting the Coldstream Guards,
Charlie goes back to the land, unleashing the following congratulatory
missive from his dad: “I trust you are not yet disenchanted with your
work as an agricultural laborer, a calling for which your costly
education has no doubt suited you.”
He is always full of compliments about his son’s appearance: “… a
sweat-rag coiled around your neck is a somewhat unattractive form of
evening dress. You’re hands looked as if you had been greasing a No. 19
bus. …”
With the approach of Charlie’s 30th birthday, papa
Mortimer heralds the new decade with an uplifting note: “It is an
unlovely age: receding hair, shortness of breath, growing pomposity and
in general a feeling that life has singularly failed to bring you your
just rewards. However, Cheer up! Forty is better as you then tend to
give up caring …”
If you were raised with sarcasm, as opposed to sincerity, you have no
choice but to seek out kindred spirits. It’s a tribal thing. If you
attempt to consort with sincere types it can only end in mayhem and
bloodshed—metaphorically, of course. I knew my Jonny was the one for me
when I met his lovely old dad. When I told him I wanted to take Jonny
white-water rafting, he responded by dead-panning, “Where do you both
wish to be buried?”
Sustaining a healthy sarcasm-based relationship is no easy matter and
requires effort and creativity. I am fortunate to be married to
somebody who is always prepared to go the distance. A couple of months
back my Jonny presented me with a greeting card. Naturally I smelled a
rat. He had never given me a card before. Why now? And why was he watching me with such sincere anticipation?
My suspicions were confirmed when I opened the envelope. The
inscription, emblazoned across a mumsy floral vista à la Thomas Kinkade,
began as follows:
I know how trapped you must feel
In that traitor of a body of yours …
In that traitor of a body of yours …
I don’t recall the rest of the verse. I know that it contained
sympathetic commiserations regarding the imprisoning effects of the
aforementioned body. I had to admire his ingenuity: Repurposing a
sincere sympathy card into a lacerating insult is an impressive feat of
sarcasm.
Delivered via email, Jonny’s assault would have lost much of its
lethal malevolence. The digital age is no friend to sarcasm. Sarcasm
relies heavily on verbal delivery and face-to-face contact. Emails,
texts, and Twitter are not the best canvas for wicked insincerity. J and
; ) and LOL are all fine and dandy but they are no substitute for a
curled lip or a rolled eyeball. If you disagree then prove me wrong by
hurling some sarcastic gems into the comments box.
Have a “nice” day.
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