Somewhere near an American college campus, at this very moment, a young idealist has just sat down at a computer keyboard on a mission, coffee steaming onto his glasses. In the early morning fog, a wave of nostalgia breaks on his waking mind and it drifts back to his 10^th grade literature class with Mrs. Behrens. She had made them read “A Modest Proposal,” a tract modest in itself at a mere 3, 376 words, written by some foreigner named “Jonathon Swift.” The entire class, or at least the minority who actually did their assignments, had become horrified that he had suggested the Irish should sell their children as food. But then Mrs. Behrens, eyes beaming behind her wire-rim glasses, informed them that this was a genre known as “satire.”  What Mr. Swift had intended, she informed them further, was for the reader to follow his logic without question until it led them off a cliff and they realized they had been taken in (though she had phrased it “in they had been taken”).

This concept lingered in the air, like an invisible cloud of flatulence that everyone smells but fears acknowledging lest they get blamed. As the cloud descended, the class began to speak in tongues, words so close to the heart that you would get the impression they had read it. Some argued that the whole concept was just so disgusting that it had no place in the community forum under any name. Jack Haddock stood up, fists trembling, and stated it was reminiscent of abortion, which was certainly no laughing matter, innocent lives destroyed and all that. Susan Troutt wrinkled her nose, telling the class that, from her experience traveling to Dublin, Irish children were filthy and she couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to even touch them. Eventually, however, the concept of satire gained momentum. A consensus formed, a simultaneous gestalt, a comprehensive epiphany, much as a shoal of fish reverse direction instantaneously.

Satire. A new concept. This would certainly be a day to remember.

Back in dorm room 213A, our aspiring commentator breaks into a broad smile. “Today,” he announces triumphantly, “I shall write satire!”

You might have noticed that I bold-faced that last “satire.” That, most certainly, was not an accident. I don’t know for sure who first started using this device of ironic emphasis, but it might have been tech columnist John Dvorak writing his pithy 1980s commentaries for PC Magazine. Usually it was a hatchet job, usually aimed at IBM, and they usually deserved it. Your eyes would be coasting along, words flowing evenly and smoothly onto your retinas, and then they’d hit this bump in the road. Bad writers everywhere soon picked up this nervous tic, and I’m proud to join them. Our budding commentator - let’s call him “Ronald” - also likes to use this device.

The other font modification device in Ronald’s quiver is EMPHASIS BY ALL CAPS. Dvorak might have used that too, but it goes back, in spirit at least, to the gonzo journalism of Dr. Hunter S. Thompson (another unique genius whose path to legend is littered now with reams of pale carbon copies. Remember carbon copies?). I remember early 300 baud days at CompuServe. Some newbie would hack out a quasi-intelligible message all in caps and the SysOp would ignore the content and post an immediate response, “Please toggle your Caps Lock key – IT LOOKS LIKE YOU’RE SHOUTING AT US!” And, shouting. is for certain is the desired effect when you do it deliberately. They are not throwaways. Gilbert Gottfried is screaming those words at you. Boldface is an elbow to the ribs; ALL CAPS is shouting (The use of italics or italics boldface is beyond the realm of this discussion since they still have some legitimate uses). Still, it’s a PITA, because the work of a modern writer has now been multiplied tenfold beyond mere words, spelling, and grammar. Now one must decide font, style, color, size, and even effects.

For many years, satire came to the party dressed in drag. Swift did not label Proposal satire. He left that up to the intelligence of the reader or, when that failed, Mrs. Behrens. In this modern age of corporate litigation, however, nothing can be assumed anymore. Coffee must be labeled “HOT” and satire must also be labeled so nobody takes it seriously. The problem with that, of course, is that great satire, like Swift’s or The Onion, must creep up on you. The reader follows assumptions one by one, nodding her head as each gains ground, even as they begin to digress from the straight and narrow. Then it dawns. “Poof!” The logic hits a bump in the road, a bridge too far, one toke over the line. The chariot comes to a screeching halt. The reader scratches her head and says, “Huh?” Then magic occurs. Just like in Mrs. Behrens class, the distant bells ring closer and closer until the reader says, to herself, “Aha! Satire!”

This process, however, has been deemed too unpredictable and complicated for the stodgy editors at, let’s say, CNN.  So when they run a tongue-in-cheek story entitled, say,  “Lesbian squids threaten production of Irish baby meat market,” they must label it thusly: “Lesbian squids threaten production of Irish baby meat market (satire)”

Now those parentheses, look at them again, are of the utmost importance – and not just as a device to distinguish the writer’s headline from the editorial label. They are literate mankind’s farewell salute to subtlety. It’s the exact inverse of SHOUTING, meant to be a whisper that might not be heard - like “Ann Coulter (whore)” or (to be “fair and balanced”) “Michael Moore (fat).” They tell us, in effect, “We cannot legally make any assumptions about your innate powers of observation or critical thinking skills. Therefore, we must assume the lowest common denominator even though doing so chafes against the writer’s intent to the point of actually negating it.” It might even be written that precisely that way in CNN Elements of Style: Guidelines.

To digress anecdotally a bit – I hope you’ll stay with me - parentheses for solitary words always make me smile.  It began with an experience some 20 years ago at the old Olentangy Inn in Columbus, before it became an upscale diner. I had just moved to Thurber Village near downtown and some neighbors, new acquaintances, graciously invited me to come along with them to the Olentangy for some “truck stop food,” served there from a menu unchanged from the 1930s. Reading that, and making nervous small talk, I came across an archaic beverage listed with coffee and tea: “Sanka (pot) $1.00,” it said. No one at the table had ever heard of Sanka, so I pointed at the word in parentheses and whispered, “See, it’s really pot, but they can’t come right out and say it or they’d get busted.” Ice broken, we had a good laugh, and “Sanka” became a running gag in the neighborhood for many months. Single words in parens - you’re trying to hide something in a store front window..

Another problem with satire must be addressed at this point. It is the expression “using satire” which has come into common use as a device to downplay egregious and antisocial verbal antagonism. I’m not a mind reader, but I know you’re thinking “Rush Limbaugh” here but - let me assure you – I am not. His name never even crossed my mind, not for an instant. I was thinking of our new friend, little Ronald, back in Mrs. Behrens’ 10^th grade literature class. One time he said to her, “You, Madame, are an overweight Irish slattern whose services are overpriced at a Saorstát tuppence and whose louse-ridden offspring are unworthy even as teething scraps for wild French dogs. They are tainted meat unfit to grace the noble tables of the British upper class.” She didn’t “get” it. Later, in the principal’s office, Ronald would explain even more eloquently that he was obviously “using satire” - since everybody knew Mrs. Behrens was a Kraut. The principal didn’t “get” it either.

(Neither do I. Sometimes I think I’d prefer that the “using satire” folks would just come out and say the forbidden words that come oozing out of their brain stems and are always lingering just a few slimy millimeters below their hippocampi. Better that, get it all right there out in the open, instead of righteously raising the “political correctness” shaku when we don't laugh, inferring that even modest civility is a character flaw.)

Oh dear, we’ve abandoned poor Ronald and his literary project. Meticulously, he has thought through all the implications of satire, but now he’ll be late for his 9:00 business ethics class. No time for the masterpiece. No. Damn, forgot to shave. Running out the door, he grabs his umbrella and his Blackberry. “Obamacare – WTF?” He tweets.