In late December of 2008, an astonishingly long and complicated life came to an abrupt, painful end. He had fought long and hard over the last few months, hoping to scrape together enough money to escape the hole he had slowly slipped into. For years he had thrived in Europe, happily flitting between Britain and France, making pit stops in Italy and Russia. But after losing his European holdings in the late 20th century, and for yearsbeing forced to sleep in college town coffee shops scattered across the United States, he finally checked himself into the Internet, where he had hoped to lay low until he could find a new job.

Unfortunately, this was no life for him, and he died in a small (although, undeniably, far too large) Facebook group called Free Greenland Now, the metaphorical equivalent to a piss filled gutter in the middle of Harlem. It was, truly, a sad death for so grand an Abstract Noun.

Let us take this time to remember our dear friend, European Satire.

European Satire, or Saty as his friends fondly called him, came bursting onto the scene in the Early Medieval Period with Chaucer, and Erasmus’ “Praise of Folly” became one of the catalysts of the Protestant Reformation. Thus, Saty found his first jobs, childish as they were, with tongue-in-check religious and political pamphlets. Still, this tided him over until his first real job came along – Jonathan Swift hired him out for long, hard hours, keeping him in overtime, and lending him out only to a few Frenchmen and Italians when a shorter day was needed to rest up. So, Saty secured himself as a top-rate Critic, attacking every institution and social class he was thrown at. Between Swift and Voltaire, Defoe and Dryden, our good friend Satire was never alone. Hard at work, he bought ranches in France, a coal mine in England, and even a fine villa in southern Italy. Life was good.

But soon, the trouble started. His brother, American Satire, had finally grown up, and in the late 19th Century, Mark Twain chose him to star in his burlesques and essays. For the first time, Saty was overshadowed, and between Twain and Bierce, there was little need for little Saty. Europe was moving on, moving on to modernism. Existential Philosophy was hired by Sartre, a client European Satire had been trying to land for years, but to no avail. Saty was left with fewer jobs, although some he worked incredibly hard on. Orwell and Welles gave him grand roles, but he could no longer retain his holdings on the mainland. Europe was beginning to forget him. Only Britain remained, but his coal mines fatally collapsed in the late 20th century, and he was forced to sell his condo in London in order to pay off his business expenses.

By the 1980’s, mosts Abstracts were left in desolation. American Satire shot himself after a horrid three years when Christopher Durang forced him to star in his plays in exchange for heroin. Existential Philosophy was last seen sailing towards the Arctic Circle. His last note scribbled onto toilet paper in a small diner in Fargo, North Dakota, simply stating: ” There is no me; no me is there.”. Thus, European Satire took up odd jobs, sailing over to America to work at colleges where American Satire had signed contracts, leaving the students confused and unable to make anything sensible. Saty’s strange sense of humor and constant need for literary wit left the American students drowning in their own sense of entitlement, and often Saty stormed out of the room while the class would sit around, mentally masturbating themselves.

By the turn of the millennium, Saty had resorted to odd jobs on the internet. Homeless, hungry, and cold, he did what he needed to do simply so he could fill his stomach. Comedy Central would occasionally trot him onto TV, often a Fake News Show of some sort, and hand him a fiver and a bottle of Jim Beam. A few poets and playwrights would give him a ring, calling themselves ‘post-modernists’, but his experience was only comparable to a young, eager model who unexpectedly finds herself on a pornographic film set. Often, he was drugged and raped. Sadly, more often, he was simply raped.

And in late December, 2008, on an unconfirmed date, he was hired to appear in a small Facebook group named Free Greenland Now. It was promising, and for the first time in years, the audience was to be Europeans again. Home at last! Or so he hoped. But after the show, the European critics decried him, attacked him, and chased him off stage. Alone, desolated, and broken after so many years of heartaches, he simply could not stomach the thought of never returning to the continent he had for so long held on his shoulders. And later that night, while watching a rerun of The Daily Show with Jon Stewart, where once again Jon did that voice that supposedly satirizes Cheney in a critical yet smart manner, European Satire choked himself on his own vomit. The man who hired him found him on the floor of the Facebook group the next morning, and after an autopsy later that day, it was confirmed that European Satire had died of misuse.

So let us pray that God will guide him to a better place. A place where Satire is once again used correctly, smartly, wittily. For surely, this is not that place. Those days are over, and are unlikely to return. He is better off, away from the drugs, alchohol, rape… Better off being rolled into a grave and left buried, unbothered. For it is better to have no satire, than to have the drunken, lazy, piss poor, broken satire we have suffered with for so long these last few years. Let us hope that the literati will let a dead man lie. But alas, we know that they will trot out his bones for years more, defiling him until there is no more money, no more fame, no more profit that can be beaten out of the carcass.

So here lies European Satire. A poor, lost shadow of what he used to be.

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