The current comedy-challenged environment we live in is not all Donald Trump's fault, although Trump's presence on the political stage seems to have made much of the country -- pro-Trump or con -- unwilling to laughing at itself. Which is a shame, because Trump himself is often funny, even if inadvertently so. Here is a man who said in 2016, without a hint of irony, "The beauty of me is that I'm very rich."
But because he almost always seemed to miss the joke, people who ought to have known better did as well. Late-night comedy, which once sought to unite Americans, has become too predictable and partisan to be truly funny. Social media's main currency is venom, which is nearly the opposite of the old Washington Gridiron Dinner admonition that political humor "singes, but does not burn." Twitter's unofficial motto, by contrast, is closer to "melt your opponent's face with a blowtorch." Activists may score coveted political points with this approach, but vitriol is an elixir meant to inflame, not heal.
Meanwhile, the wittiest bits out there are often banned, attacked by woke censors, or simply misunderstood, which leads to a sub-genre of unintentional humor -- let's call it anti-comedy -- best epitomized by the "self-own." An example took place this week after a Twitter user who goes by Faith Back Rub "retweeted" a snobby admonition purportedly from Donald Trump Jr. telling his supporters to avoid coming to Mar-a-Lago to show their support because "we have many important people coming to the club and need to keep it clean."
Now here was high quality satire, precisely because it was understated. Also, the user left two unmistakable clues that the fake Trump Jr. tweet was caricature, not a hoax. The time stamp read 6:99 a.m., Aug. 13, aside a sig line reading "Parody by Back Rub."
Nonetheless, the mob howled. Hollywood filmmaker Andy Ostroy, who has publicly compared Trump's 2016 election to the great trauma in his life -- the brutal murder of his wife Adrienne Shelly -- missed the joke entirely. He retweeted the supposed Donald Jr. tweet with the obligatory language about how Trump exploits his supporters and lies to them. The satire also sailed over the head of Kathy Griffin, who dutifully put the fake tweet on Facebook, along with the obligatory attack on Trump. A comedic actress known primarily for posting a photo of herself holding the realistic-looking severed head of Donald Trump, Griffin is a prototype of our laugh-challenged times: a "comedian" without an actual sense of humor.
Dave Chappelle, perhaps the most talented political humorist of our time, reveals the trap that hyper-sensitive partisans have set for themselves. On almost all the key public policy issues of the day, Chappelle is in agreement with those who would cancel him. His perceived sin is irreverence in how he talks about American culture, a trait he shares with all great comedians. The other is self-deprecation. For instance, Chappelle addresses his wealth and fame, a la Donald Trump, but as a way of pointing to life's absurdity.
"Before I start I want to say, I'm rich and famous," he opened a recent bit. "I'm vaccinated, I got the Johnson & Johnson vaccine. I walked in and was like, give me the third-best option. I'll have what the homeless people are having."
In his sheer genius, Chappelle reminds me of W.C. Fields, the early 20th century comedic maestro whose politics also escaped easy definition. Fields didn't engage much with racial issues, but he did poke merciless fun at blue noses, censors, and busybodies. He clearly despised what we might call the "social conservatives" of his day, which is to say the pro-temperance crowd. Yet he bristled at political correctness, and nanny-state types, which would have put him at odds with today's campus-style progressives. He also detested high taxes, and occasionally needled the excesses of the New Deal in his films, which took some gumption at the height of Franklin Roosevelt's popularity.
Fields' politics might best be described as libertarian. In 1940, he announced his whimsical presidential campaign, one built around a slogan that combined actual U.S. campaign history with one of his best-known films: "A Chickadee in Every Pot."
In his most overtly political skit, Fields took aim at a type we might call the Curmudgeonly Conservative. In this bit (go to the 9-minute and 50-second mark), a cranky man is asked by a drug store clerk, played by Fields himself, if he wants to buy a stamp. The man says yes, and then requests a purple stamp. When Fields says he doesn't have purple stamps, the curmudgeon replies, "A person hasn't got any rights in this country anymore. The government even tells you what color stamps you gotta buy. That's the Democratic Party for you!"
Neither Twitter nor Fox News existed at the time, so Americans didn't have to suffer through the faux outrage of conservatives demanding equal time or missing the joke altogether by chiming in, "Yes, that's just like the damned Democrats."
I shouldn't have to say this, but the difference between people who make fun of their enemies and those who make fun of themselves is the difference between a bully and a person with a sense of humor.
And when one feels compelled to needle the other side, a stiletto works better than a shillelagh. Politically active celebrity chef José Andrés, who had the advantage of not being born in this country, understands that principle. He showed his wisdom after screwy Georgia Republican congresswoman Marjorie Taylor Greene mixed up "gazpacho" with "Gestapo" in a televised interview ("Not only do we have the D.C. police, which is the D.C. gulag," she said, "but now we have Nancy Pelosi's gazpacho police spying on members of Congress…").
By way of response to this gaffe, the famous chef was ready with his bon mot: "Dear @Rep.MTG," Andrés tweeted, "the Gazpacho police was created by me in 1993 to make sure that no one will add Tabasco or jalapeño or strange things to my beloved soup! Please don't blame anybody else but me…stop by for a glass anytime. Don't forget your mask and vaccination card!"
Once upon a time, candidates and elected officials knew that employing humor with a light touch like that could be beneficial: It humanized them, put audiences at their ease, and could be employed to dodge tough questions in ways that made voters smile. When musician and folk humorist Kinky Friedman ran for governor of Texas several years ago, he did just that.
Vowing to undo the "wussification" of Texas if elected governor, Friedman managed to make political journalists, and political rivals, laugh along with him, not at him. "I support gay marriage because I believe they have the right to be just as miserable as the rest of us," he quipped. Another libertarian by temperament, Friedman used one-liners to deflect questions about government involvement in everything from abortion to smoking bans.
"When I was 18 months old my mischievous uncle substituted a cigar for a pacifier," he said. "Now I still use the pacifier occasionally, but mostly I use cigars."
But behind the wit was a serious point. "This is a grassroots campaign and I can take a stance on prayer in school or gay marriage, which they won't do," Kinky Friedman said about his two leading opponents, Rick Perry and Carole Strayhorn. "It's about changing politics itself -- and politics itself sucks."
Here at RealClearPolitics, we don't believe that's necessarily the case. But Kinky's description fits our current mood pretty well, and it's our quote of the week.
Carl M. Cannon is the Washington bureau chief for RealClearPolitics. Reach him on Twitter @CarlCannon.
